


Black Ice

by naughthere



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AU, College, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Professor - Freeform, Prostitution, Romance, Sexual Content, Smut, Student-Teacher, VictUuri, Victor - Freeform, Yaoi on Ice, Yuri, Yuri on Ice - Freeform, alternative universe, nikiforov, student, victor nikiforov - Freeform, viktor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9152782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughthere/pseuds/naughthere
Summary: Yuri is a freshman in college, trying to make ends meet by working part-time as a prostitute. Victor is a renowned author and professor who stumbles across one of Yuri's essays. Inspired by Yuri, Victor travels across the world to find him. When they meet, stars collide and so do they.





	1. Ruination

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading, it means the world to me! Follow me on tumblr at hitherelovely for updates and I'd love to chat with all of you!!

He gasped, brown eyes tearing up as rough hands gripped his waist. He blinked them away, gritting his teeth as a moan sounded from behind him. Sweat beaded down his forehead and his eyes blurred hazily around the cheap motel. Sometimes, taking note of his surroundings helped to distract him from what was going on.  Moth-bitten curtains, cigarette holes burned into the sheets, a mysterious stain on the blanket. His head hurt, buzzing like the vacancy sign outside.

Another groan of pleasure from above him. Yuri hoped he'd finish soon.

_Hi! My name is Katsuri Yuri, I'm an 18-year-old Japanese-American college student studying in Chicago._

Yuri gripped the sheets under him as the man pummeled into him again.

_As you can tell, I have a part-time job as an exotic escort._

Another moan of ecstasy. The hammering grew more erratic. He was close.

_But most people just call me a prostitute._

His client thrust weakly into him a couple times before groaning and pulling out. Yuri felt a sticky substance trailing down his legs and shuddered, but that compared nothing to the disgust he felt when the man chuckled, leaning down to his ear and whispering, "Did you like that, baby?"

Resisting the urge to slap him away, Yuri bit his lip and smiled coyly.

"Yes, very much."

"Yes, very much what, Yuri?"

Yuri stomped down his pride as he replied in a low hiss, "Yes, _Daddy_."  He hoped his voice wasn't too venomous; he needed a good tip, after all.  

The man smirked smugly and patted his head, pulling out his wallet and yanking out some large bills before slapping them on the bedside table.

"Extra, just for you sweetheart."

Yuri pushed back bile as he gasped much too enthusiastically and beamed at his client, giving his praise and thanks.

_Like a dog. You're a fucking dog, Yuri Katsuki._

The man chuckled, buckling his pants and leaving for the door.

"I'll ask for you again, angel."

Yuri sincerely hoped he wouldn't.

* * *

"Tadaima," Yuri called as he trudged back home. He bit back a groan of pain as he knelt down and unlaced his sneakers.

His mom immediately poked her head from the hallway and offered him a brilliant smile. He wished he could return it.

"Yuri! You're home late, did the boss ask you to stay again?" She fussed, her warm eyes smothered in worry. Maybe it was just him but she looked thinner. She used to be a plump and healthy woman, but now she had withered away, like a dying blossom.

_Ever since…_

"Yeah...er, he needed help restocking," Yuri replied lamely. She looked like she wanted to say more but he gave her a weak half-smile, looking more like a grimace than anything else.

She sighed, furrowing her brows.

"Well, do you want some katsudon?"

Yuri shook his head, ignoring her disappointed eyes.

"I'm tired, Mom."

* * *

The scalding water rushed down his shoulders as he grabbed a sponge and scrubbed until his skin was red and raw. He kept scrubbing, scrubbing because he had to. He was so, so dirty. He was disgusting. He didn't deserve to live.

Bruises covered his entire body. Dark blue fingerprints were tattooed onto his pale hips, sore red imprints marked his impurity on his neck; scratch marks skidded down his arms, his back. He was like a broken doll.

Used, shattered, and discarded.

A gasp tore out of his throat and he breathed in, trying to catch his breath. But he couldn't. His brain pounded in his skull and his lungs couldn't seem to hold onto any air. His vision blurred and his hands twitched.

 _Oh, I'm having a panic attack_ , he realized faintly.

His chest shook and his throat ached as he tried to take deep breaths, dissolving into shuddering spasms.

Curling into a tight ball, Yuri pressed his knees to his chest and wound his arms tightly around his legs, shaking with a fear he couldn't comprehend. The water turned cold as he tried to keep himself from shattering, from careening over the edge of insanity.

 _Oh God_ , he thought. _Oh, God._

* * *

Yuri sighed as his professor dismissed his final class. He grabbed his laptop and stuffed it into his book bag, shuffling towards the door.

Tuition was due in a week.

He sighed again.

"Mr. Katsuki!"

Yuri turned around with a curious expression on his face. His professor, Celestino, waved at him to stop walking. Confused, Yuri let out a hesitant, "Yes?"

"Yuri, your last essay was incredible," he breathed out.

Yuri gave him an awkward smile.

"Thanks, Professor," he mumbled. He wasn't used to praise--or social interaction for that matter.  

"Have you ever considered changing your major? To creative writing? You have the talent for it, Yuri."

Yuri shook his head. Creative writing would starve him and his family _and_ his dog. No way in hell. Even though he loved writing, it was implausible.

"Sorry professor, I don't really like it," he lied.

Celestino's face fell for a moment, but he offered a supportive smile.

"Well, if you ever change your mind Yuri, let me know."

"I will."

_I won't._

* * *

Blue eyes widened in surprise. "Did you say a freshman wrote this?"

Professor Yahkov nodded, "Yes, Vitya, a freshman from Chicago I believe."

Victor Nikiforov stuttered-and he never stuttered-, "F-freshman freshman? As in a first year? Wrote _this_?"

Yahkov rolled his eyes in annoyance and crossed his arms.  He knew what was coming; he could see the tell-tale gleam in Victor's eyes, the one that appeared every time his former student was about to do something impulsive and reckless.  

He'd known Victor long enough to realize it was impossible to stop whatever bad decision the silver-haired man was about to make.  

But that didn't mean he couldn't  _try._

"If you have time to read some kid's thesis you should have time to prepare for your lecture, _Professor_ Nikiforov," he snapped, sounding like the instructor Victor knew and loved. Yahkov tried to yank the paper out of his hands, but Victor held on and whined until he gave up, cursing and stomping out of the room.

Victor stroked the pages almost lovingly, ignoring the way the words were crumpled from their little game of tug-of-war. He was intrigued.

The writing was beautiful, painfully so. The words wove together in a way that could build worlds and destroy them, all at once.

It was stunning.

 _When was the last time_ , Victor wondered, his azure eyes taking over the writing. _When was the last time a piece of writing captured me so completely? When was the last time I felt this rush?_

_Who is this brilliant mind?_

His eyes wandered to the name printed in tiny font at the top of the page.

 _Ah_ , he smiled.

_So it's you, Yuri Katsuki._

* * *

 


	2. Names

Yuri sunk low into his bath, blowing bubbles out of his nose underwater.  He visibly deflated.  This week had been rough.  He’d barely managed to pay for tuition; the Office of Academic Affairs had called him three times.  Luckily, his mom didn’t answer the phone.  She would’ve worried endlessly, and she didn’t need that.

Her _health_ didn’t need that.

He poked his toes out of the tub, shifting so that the bubbles covered his entire body.  He winced as his hip brushed against the side of the small ceramic bath; the bruises there were practically permanent.  Truthfully, he missed his family’s old hot spring inn back at Japan—it was a lot bigger than the little tubs in America. They’d moved to the United States when he was six, but a part of him still lingered in Hasetsu.  It was a small town, but he loved it. 

There was an ice rink he used to skate at. 

Yuri stayed in the bath until the water grew cold and his skin was wrinkled.  Then, realizing he couldn't put off the inevitable, he dressed quickly in jeans and a hoodie. 

It was time to go to work. 

 

* * *

 

Victor took another shot of vodka, ignoring the burn down his throat and refusing a chaser like a born and bred Russian.

“Damn you, Victor!”  Christophe cursed, his cheeks flushed red from the mountain of finished drinks surrounding the two friends.  The silver-haired man beside him laughed heartily and slapped his shoulder. 

“Oh Christophe,” he wheezed, “Did you really think you could outdrink me?”

Christophe flicked him off. 

“Just tell me why you came to America, you piece of shit,” he demanded. 

Victor’s grin spread like the Cheshire Cat. 

“Nope!”  He beamed, “The deal was I would tell you if you could drink me under the table.”

Christophe groaned and buried his face in his arms, head pounding from the alcohol and deafening music.  There was no way he’d be able to drink more than Victor Nikiforov, that monstrous Russian alcohol-guzzler.  Despite his slender frame, Victor could probably outdrink a grizzly bear. 

Even after half a dozen shots, Victor seemed fine, talking smoothly to the bartender and winking at any heart-stricken women who came their way.  He’d already gotten three numbers.

Christophe would never understand Victor.  The guy was a genius, a heartthrob, and literally perfect in every way.  But more than anything, Victor was utterly unpredictable.  Completely off the chain.  When they were at Columbia undergrad together, everybody thought Victor was crazy for getting a degree in literature, convinced that he was going to end up starving on a street corner somewhere.  He would always laugh with them, play along to their jokes. 

Victor’s first book skyrocketed to number one on the New York Times Bestseller List for fifty-three weeks.  He was twenty-one years old.

When he decided to get his PhD, everybody thought he was insane—he was already filthy rich from his first book, so why go back to school?  Why not just keep writing? 

His second book won him a Nobel Prize, the youngest Nobel Laurate in literature in history.  He was twenty-five years old.    

And then he just...stopped.

For the past two years, he’d been working as a professor at the University of Moscow, publishing _nothing_.  Nada.  Not even small essays or short stories like he used to.  It was as though Victor Nikiforov disappeared off the face of the earth.  For a professor, this was unusual.  For a writer, this was _insanity_.  Fans were itching for a new novel, and Christophe hoped Victor would come up with something soon.    

 _But Victor had always been lonely_ , Christophe thought, nursing his drink as he watched the charming Russian man laugh with the bartender.  Beneath his goofy exterior was his vast and lonesome intellect, an impenetrable cavern that only words could fill.  The only time Christophe felt like he _truly_ knew Victor was when he read his books.  It was the only glimpse the world ever garnered at the soul of the silver-haired genius. 

But as impulsive as Victor had always been, Christophe would’ve never predicted _this_. 

“Why America, Victor?  You always said you wanted to teach in Russia.  And why _Chicago_?  I mean, it’s a good school, but Harvard offered you a full-time position last semester and you turned them down.” 

He reached for another shot, raising a brow in question when his friend didn't answer immediately. 

Victor smiled, probably the first real smile Christophe had seen from him in a very, very long time. 

“It’s because,” he mused, aquamarine eyes flashing in the dark, “Someone’s inspired me to write again.”

 

* * *

 

“Yuri, you’re late,” Minako called over the loud music as Yuri walked into the club.  He smiled sheepishly; Minako was such a stickler for time.  The lights flashed obnoxiously as he followed her to the back room.  They wove around the stages, poles, and the bar.  Thankfully, it was early and the club didn’t have many patrons yet.  The strippers lounged almost lazily on the poles, wrapping their legs around the metal like lionesses waiting for prey. 

Minako was the owner of _Ballet Girls_ , a strip club in the middle of the red light district.  However, it was a double-sided deal— _Ballet Girls_ was also a prostitution ring run by Minako herself.  Yuri had to give her part of his earnings every time, but he got to keep tips, and in all honesty, it was a lot safer with Minako in charge.  She made sure the clients were clean and her girls were well-taken care of.  In fact, she even gave Yuri enough advance to pay for tuition for last semester.  She was a good person, and Yuri was glad he had her.

They continued walking until they reached an elevator.  Minako paused and held up a key.  Yuri reached for it without asking.

“Room 421, he’s clean.”

“Any kinks?”

Minako shook her head.  “Didn’t say,” she responded.

“What’s he like?”  Yuri inquired.  He always liked to have some idea of his client before actually meeting them.

Minako thought for a moment.

“I think he’s some foreign guy—he sounded Russian.”

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Sinful

“Yuri,” he breathed, sending shivers up Yuri’s spine as he drove home, slamming his hips forward.  Yuri moaned in ecstasy, his fingers digging into the sheets below. 

“Please,” he begged, gasping for air.  The grip on his hips tightened as he moved slowly, chuckling at Yuri’s whine of displeasure.  He wanted it hard and fast; he wanted to fuck. 

“God, Yuri, you’re beautiful.”  A trail of orgasmic kisses rained down on his throat, his collarbone.  A dexterous hand stroked his length until Yuri was left whimpering on the edge of bliss before pulling away. 

Yuri keened, pouting as he was fucked torturously slow.  A smug grin spread across his client’s face as he pulled Yuri in for a deep, smoldering kiss.  Yuri gasped and broke away—he never kissed customers, it was one of his hard limits.  But as the man slid his tongue into Yuri’s mouth, the latter found himself forgetting the rules. 

“Yuri,” he murmured sinfully, “Tell me what you want.”

So he did.

 

* * *

 

It was the best fuck ever.  A night of back-arching pleasure and genuine moans.  Yuri paused for a moment.   _Wait no, fuck isn't the right word for it_.  Fuck wasn't _intimate_ enough for what they did. 

His eyes widened.

It was more like... _I guess that's as close as I'll ever get to making love._

He shook his head, trying to pay attention to his professor, but he was stuck on this mysterious, beautiful, Russian client.  

And that was over a week ago.

The new semester started similarly to the previous one: Yuri crying over the cost of textbooks and then crying some more over the workload in the syllabuses. Today was the first day of classes and he was glad it was still syllabus week because he could not concentrate.  He hadn't been able to breathe, let alone focus, without thinking of what should've been a night to forget, what should've been his fucking job— _which_ , he reminded himself, he hated.

He sighed, slumping on one arm as the professor continued droning on about his expectations in a sea of drowsy students hidden behind the glow of their laptops. 

Yuri's thoughts lingered back on that night a week ago and he shivered, flushing at the thought.  He was no novice obviously, given his profession, but under those nimble fingers, that adventurous tongue, that—

Well, Yuri might as well have been a virgin.

He couldn't honestly remember the last time he'd enjoyed sex.  For him, it was a job with a single goal in mind: get the client off and get out.  And Yuri was really good at his job.  He would fuck, hard and fast, and leave with his money.   _But after that night…_ Yuri quivered.

He wasn't sure if he could handle going back to work. 

The man had been so sweet, gently coaxing him and genuinely concerned for his pleasure.  But he also knew what he was doing, dragging out wave after wave of pleasure for Yuri.  Leaving him breathless and shuddering, begging for more, wantonly moaning and curling his toes as he—

Yuri stopped his train of thought, blushing up to his ears.

 _Stop_ , he reprimanded himself, _focus_.   _Stop thinking about him; he was just a client._

But no matter what he did, Yuri's thoughts kept drifting to the mysterious Russian stranger.  

Soon enough, the class ended and the professor dismissed everybody.  Yuri filed out of class, quiet as usual.  He didn't have many friends; his work schedule didn't allow time for that. 

His ears perked up as he caught the dialogue of several students discussing something intently. 

"Did you hear?" 

"About Nikiforov? Yeah that's _insane!_ "

"Can you believe it? He left Moscow last semester."

Yuri frowned in confusion.  Surely they couldn't mean...Victor Nikiforov?  The Nobel Prize winner?  Did he finally come out with a new novel or something? 

 _No_ , he told himself, _surely I would've heard of a new book._

He prided himself on his knowledge of all things Victor Nikiforov.  He was, after all, his greatest fan.  Victor Nikiforov was the reason why Yuri made it through high school.  The reason why he was still alive.  

After his father died, Yuri was inconsolable.  

It was an accident, a drunk driver, they said.

He died on the spot, he didn't suffer, they said. 

Yuri knew better.

His father was a journalist, a writer.  It was because his father had uncovered something, something that was never supposed to see the light of day. 

Yuri hated him. 

Couldn't he have put his family first?  Couldn't he think of what his actions might have led to? 

Yuri shook his head and grimaced. _No_ , he told himself, _no thinking about it._

But after his father left his family scarred, like a forest after a fire, scorched beyond all repair, Yuri almost took his own life.  He was a junior in high school. Two years ago.  He had the pills in one hand and his note in the other.  He explained his reasoning in the letter, saying it was nobody's fault and reminding his mother and sister that he loved them, always. 

And just as he was about to swallow the pills, the door rang.  It was the mailman.  He handed Yuri a book, the one his sister had ordered.  Yuri didn't think much of it, but he couldn't help opening it because he was curious and also because he thought it was a smut book that Mari wanted to hide from their mother, and he figured that was the last thing he could do for his sister anyways. 

He remembered tracing the paperback cover, glancing at the title.  He remembered opening it, reveling in the scent of a new book: the smell of paper, wood, and adventure.  He remembered reading the first sentence, aloud in his empty house.  

And it was the first sentence that changed his world. 

The first sentence that made him feel like a person again.

The first sentence that made him want to live.   

Yuri kept the book and threw away the pills.  He finished it in a matter of hours.  Then he found another book written by Victor Nikiforov, and when he was finished with that, he dug up all of his essays, his short-stories, even his poems, and devoured them.  Every word he breathed in was like a seed being planted in the burned world of his soul.  Every sentence he absorbed was like a flower sprouting out of the earth.  And every work he read replenished the caverns of sadness in his heart. 

Yuri was obsessed.  He admired Victor more than anything.  He wanted to be a writer because of him.   _He wanted to live because of him._

Perhaps that's why he was taking another creative writing class, when he should've been taking his prerequisites for med school. 

Yuri walked to his next class, practically shaking from the cold.  Sadly, it was on the other side of campus and that meant a brisk walk through the January weather. Although he was excited about this class—it was a creative writing class taught by a professor he’d had before—he couldn’t help but grumble as the wind threatened to knock him off his feet. 

As it turns out, Yuri wrote down the wrong room number on his arm (which he realized after climbing all the stairs and the building a realizing that there was no fourth floor).  Instead of being right on time, he was a more than a little late.  But, he assured himself, it was a freshman seminar and Celestino would probably be a little tardy too, if last semester was anything to go by. 

Practically jogging to class, because despite his assertions, Yuri hated being late, he arrived at the right classroom and slid it open quietly.  He hoped that he could file in at the back and nobody would know the difference. 

Instead, as he opened the door, the classroom was hushed and large turquoise eyes gazed at him curiously. 

Standing before him, dressed in a tie and slacks with his silver hair pushed to the side, was Victor Nikiforov. 

“Yuri,” he frowned, “You’re late.”

 

* * *

 

Victor hummed happily as students for his 9:30 class filed in sleepily to the classroom.  He’d already had one class today (an 8am because the world was a cruel place), but he was particularly excited for this class. 

Because this was the class that _Yuri Katsuki_ was in. 

He smiled despite himself.

When he found out that Yuri was in a writing class, he was giddy for days.  It took a quick email to his old pal Celestino (who’d been dying to take a semester off anyways) and another to the chancellor, and he’d been set.  For once, Victor was glad his name carried influence. 

But as the minutes ticked by and the seats filled up, there was no Yuri.

At 9:32, Victor blamed the weather.  He smiled at the class and took attendance.  There were 24 students—it was supposed to be 25. 

At 9:36, Victor reminded himself that Yuri was a freshman.  He started reading the syllabus.  

At 9:42, Victor was annoyed.  It was like he’d been stood up by a date. 

So when Yuri Katsuki walked in at 9:46, flushed and out of breath, the first thing that came out of Victor’s mouth was “Yuri, you’re late.”

The first thought that came to Victor’s mind was _Yuri, you’re cute_. 

With his dark hair and expressive eyes, Yuri was more than cute in Victor’s opinion.  He looked like Snow White.  Pale skin, slender hips, full lips, and a blooming blush spreading across his face.  Victor didn’t usually go for boys, but he could definitely go for Yuri. 

Yuri gaped at him for what seemed like a full minute and Victor felt a pang of sympathy.  He was just a freshman and maybe calling him out on his tardiness was a tad bit excessive.  Victor hoped he wouldn’t cry. 

Instead, Yuri stuttered out, “S-sorry, I er, um…y-you’re not Celestino?”

Victor smiled warmly, despite wishing that Yuri would’ve recognized him.  He was a fool to think that _everybody_ in the academic world had read his books.  But he’d hoped at least Yuri would have.  

“You’re correct, I’m not Professor Celestino,” he said, “I’m Professor Nikiforov.  Please, take a seat and we’ll get class started.”

Yuri nodded dumbly, his mouth still open with his glasses askew on his face, walking drunkenly to an open seat.  The class just stared at their strange encounter.  Yuri buried his face in his arms, trying not to hyperventilate. 

_Victor Nikiforov._

He looked up at the blackboard, staring at his idol.  He blinked several times, afraid that Victor would disappear like a mirage.

_Victor Nikiforov is my professor._

Again, the mixed urge to squeal with joy and pass out came over him.  He pinched himself multiple times, resisting the urge to grab his phone and text his friend Phichit (who was studying abroad in Thailand) that _Victor Nikiforov was teaching his class_.  

Yuri spent the rest of class gawking at Victor and listening more intently than he ever had before in any lecture, even though the Russian man was only going through the syllabus.  However, in his lilting baritone voice, Yuri was sure anything would’ve sounded nice coming out of his mouth.  In the back of his mind, he hoped that Victor would do an audiobook in his own voice. 

He would gladly starve for that. 

After class, as the rest of the students followed one another out the door like sheep, Yuri approached Victor, who was wiping the board and had his back turned. 

“Um…” he started, not sure what to say.  He’d never approached a professor for anything before. 

 Victor turned around curiously, an eyebrow raised. 

“Um, I’m really sorry about my tardiness today!”  Yuri blurted out suddenly, face flushing as he bowed.  He reddened even more as he quickly straightened.  

To his surprise, Victor laughed warmly. 

“It's okay,” he said, his blue eyes gleaming like the northern lights.  “But if you really want, I guess there is one thing you _can_ do to make up for it.”

“What is it?”  Yuri asked, trying not to sound too eager.  He would’ve done anything this man told him to.  Not that anybody needed to know that.  

Victor smiled. 

“Come get coffee with me.”

 

 

 

 


	4. Muse

Yuri combed his fingers through his hair. Then he adjusted his glasses for the millionth time.  Unsatisfied, he peered at the mirror again and played with his hair some more.  He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, mainly because that was what he always wore (even though it took him thirty minutes to pick them out).  Throwing on his jacket, he glanced at the time on his phone.

6:30.

He exhaled.   _Okay, thirty minutes to get there._  Plenty of time.  

 _Don't be late_ , he told himself, _but also don't be creepily early._

His hands shook.  He'd never been more nervous in his life.  

Victor Nikiforov had asked him to coffee.  

 _Victor Nikiforov_. 

His idol, his _god_ , everything he wanted to be and everything he wasn’t—as untouchable as the loneliest star in the sky.  Yuri was sure he’d wake up any moment now and realize that it was a lie.  Life was never this nice to him—the universe had marked him for misfortune from the moment he’d been born. 

So how was it that _Victor Nikiforov asked him to coffee?_

Yuuri’s heart pounded in his ears and he suddenly felt dizzy.  He wasn't sure how to place the foreign feeling but then he suddenly realized. 

He was _happy_.

Yuri hadn't been this blissful in a long time.  It was like seeing the sun after being locked up for years; crushing and overwhelming, but beautiful and warm.  

And if Victor was the sun, then Yuri was the moon, living off of the star’s rays, always chasing, never reaching. 

Brushing his hands through his hair for the umpteenth time and with a final glance at the mirror, Yuri left, beaming with nervous excitement. 

 

* * *

 

Silver hair fell over one eye before being pushed back, only to fall back again.  Turquoise eyes blinked hazily as Victor stared at his laptop.  An empty document page with a blinking cursor stared back at him, taunting him with every passing second.  His eyes narrowed in frustration, two pools of frozen seas.  He had an idea, a story— _something_ was brewing. 

He just didn’t know what yet. 

Sighing, he closed the lid, reaching for his steaming coffee.  His clouds of breath were visible in the frigid weather—it seemed like Chicago wasn’t that different from Moscow after all.  Whereas most people were hidden inside cozy buildings, Victor found it hard to concentrate inside.  He liked being outside, writing outside.  It helped him breathe. 

The coffee house he chose was close to campus and was a hole in the wall—exactly what he wanted, _needed_ , as he’d been hiding from salivating reporters and stuttering students all day.  Of course, what did he expect, coming back into the public eye after two years of absence?  He shook his head, the silver locks catching in the dim sunlight.  

Writer’s block was the absolute worst. 

Two years of writer’s block was _actual hell_. 

Sipping at his coffee, he checked his watch.  He was early, as usual, but a part of him was afraid that Yuri wouldn’t show up, that he’d be late, just as he was that morning. 

_Ah, that would be sad._

Good thing Yuri _wasn’t_ late. 

Moments later, the Japanese boy showed up, his cheeks flushed and chestnut eyes brimming with nervous energy. 

 _Wow_ , Victor thought, a smile spreading across his face, _he really is beautiful._  

 

* * *

 

The second Yuri saw Victor, he felt like he was so inadequate, so inferior, to the utter god before him.  

Victor beamed, a smile to shame the sun rising from his face, as he waved him over.  The Russian man was wearing a button-up with a black tie, with a red scarf wrapped around his neck.  He was wearing a long dark coat, with elegant leather gloves. 

He was eloquence defined. 

 _Compared to his own ratty jeans and sneakers_ …Yuri bit his lip, not meeting the other’s gaze. 

“Yuri!”  Victor called happily, waving his hand in the air. 

The dark haired boy offered a shy smile as he approached.

“H-hi, Professor,” he said nervously, giving out his hand to shake. 

To his surprise, Victor pulled him in for a hug.  

Barely suppressing a squeal of surprise, Yuri froze as Victor wrapped his arms around him like they were old friends.  To his embarrassment, he noticed that Victor smelled really, really nice.  A warm scent of sandalwood and jasmine wafted over him, almost intoxicating in the way that it calmed him down.  

After what seemed like an eternity later, Victor pulled back before blinking in confusion, taking in the scarlet blooming across Yuri’s face. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Sorry, sorry…did I embarrass you?”  He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as a dust of pink scattered across his nose.  

It took a moment for Yuri to respond. 

“N-no, it’s okay,” he stuttered, looking up into the eyes of his idol.  This man could probably run him over, burn his house down, and Yuri would still be fine with it. 

Victor smiled again. 

Yuri wish he’d stop doing that—his heart couldn’t take any more of this jolting; he would actually die if Victor kept this up.  _Wait no_ , he didn’t want that— _Victor should always be smiling._  

He shook his head in frustration as his thoughts started jumbling into a train wreck. 

As if he could hear his inner musings, Victor laughed, pulling him to his table. 

“I got a tea for you,” he said, offering Yuri a steaming cup. 

Yuri blinked in surprise before thanking the Russian man with a smile.  _It’s just coincidence_ , he thought, _there’s no way that Victor would’ve known that I hate coffee._  

But it was definitely not coincidence.  Right after he’d finished reading Yuri’s essay, Victor took to the internet to find out literally everything he could about the dark haired boy.  He prowled his Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, _barely_ managing to avoid liking a picture from eighty-three weeks ago on Instagram…

Not that Yuri was particularly active on social media.  His last Instagram post was four months ago and it was a tribute to his dead dog (which, Victor admitted, made him tear up a bit) and he really only retweeted things on Twitter.  

But as Victor was stalking Yuri online, he realized something strange: he felt like he was researching for a book.  Before he'd realized what he was doing, he'd grabbed a stack of post-it notes and was jotting down every bit of information he had on Yuri.  

Honestly, he felt a bit like a stalker but he insisted he just wanted to get to know his student a little better (Victor knew he was lying to himself but he told Makkachin the same thing so that made him feel less weird).

Every time Victor thought about Yuri, his head felt pleasantly light and his heart burned.  

It was a rush of adrenaline that Victor only got when he was writing.

Yuri had become his muse. 

But just _how_ , that remained the mystery.   

Victor held his head up with his arm, sliding into a comfortable position as he stared at Yuri, bright blue clashing with brown.

“So,” he began, “Tell me about yourself, Yuri.”

His smile turned sinful.

“ _I want to know everything_.”

 

* * *

 

Their conversation lapsed hours.  Victor really was the most interesting person Yuri had ever encountered.  The Russian man laughed as freely as he lived, and it was overwhelming.  Yuri had been so lonely, been drenched in darkness for so long, that he’d forgotten what the light felt like on his skin.

And Victor was the sun. 

Bright, warm, pure happiness—giving life freely, like he wasn’t the center of the galaxy, holding everything together. 

Yuri felt like he could get high off of his laughter, his smile, the way his breath materialized in the cold air as he talked.  Not to mention how naturally flirtatious Victor was.  Every time he brushed his fingers against Yuri’s knuckles, or bumped his long legs against his knees, Yuri figured the thrill that washed over him was probably the same thing addicts felt after shooting up drugs.    

It was the first time Yuri had felt comfortable around somebody he’d just met.  Victor stormed past all barriers, like a tank rolling over barbed wire.  Every time Yuri formally called him “professor”, he’d sigh and pretend to be angry until Yuri corrected himself with a blush on his face.  

They talked about books, mostly because Yuri figured that it was common ground for both of them.  Not to anybody’s surprise, Victor was incredibly well-read.  And so was Yuri. 

Victor loved the way Yuri’s eyes lit up, like an amber sunrise, when he was talking about character development in _Jane Eyre_ or symbols in _1984_ or allusions in _Paradise Lost._ He simply smiled and let Yuri—who was never used to talking freely with anybody—ramble about his favorite books and quotes and authors. 

Victor was glad Yuri seemed comfortable around him.  His student reminded him of a rabbit, all shy and nervous and twitchy, but soft and sweet at the same time. 

After books, they began talking about all sorts of other topics, with Victor pressing to find out more about the Japanese boy.  Their drinks had long grown cold as Victor launched questions at Yuri, asking him about everything and nothing all at once.  Stupid questions, really, if Yuri was being honest, like:

“Yuri, do you prefer poodles or golden retrievers?”

“Um…well golden retrievers are pretty, but—” 

“ _Prettier than my Makachin?!_ ”

“No, Victor, of course not…Makachin’s worlds apart from other dogs.”

“Ah, good answer.”

This resulted in Victor showing Yuri a PowerPoint of said dog, all the way from when Makkachin was a puppy, to now, and Yuri laughing loudly as Victor told about his pet’s antics.  If it was anybody but Victor, who had 257 slides of information and pictures on Makkachin, Yuri probably would've tuned out.  But honestly, the silver-haired man could've read the dictionary and Yuri would listen like his life depended on it.  

It was half past ten when they both finally realized just how late it’d gotten.  Yuri’s stomach had been growling for hours now, but he hardly payed it any mind as all his thoughts were focused in rapt attention to Victor’s words. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to keep you so long, Yuri,” Victor said, smiling apologetically.  Truth be told, Victor would’ve taken him home and kept him forever if he could. 

Yuri was almost flabbergasted— _this was the most fun he’d had in ages_ , he wanted to say.  Instead, he simply shook his head, “No, this was really great, Victor.”

Checking his phone, Yuri frowned at the time.  He hoped the buses were still running…

Shivering involuntarily, and mentally cursing himself for not wearing a bigger coat (but then again who in their right mind sits outside in the middle of January in Chicago?), Yuri began to bid Victor goodbye but the man stopped him abruptly. 

“Ah, I shouldn’t have kept you outside for so long,” he murmured.  Quickly pulling off his scarf, he wrapped it around Yuri’s neck before he could protest. 

“V-victor!” He exclaimed, moving to take it off. 

“Just give it back to me tomorrow,” Victor pressed. 

“But I don’t have your class on Thursdays…?”

Victor smiled slyly. 

“Then I guess that’s just an excuse to see you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Yuri stood by the bus stop, shivering and pacing to keep warm.  He refreshed the transportation app on his phone again, groaning in frustration.  The bus was late, which happened quite frequently, but Yuri was pretty sure he was going to get hypothermia if it didn’t arrive soon.  He mentally berated himself for not taking Victor’s offer to drive him back home, but he didn’t want Victor to see his tiny house. 

He’d gladly throw away his pride now if it meant being in a warm car and getting to talk to Victor more. 

He buried his nose in the silver-haired man’s scarf again, a smile forming at his lips. 

Victor was the best. 

His smell washed over him, relaxing him all at once.  It made the cold seem not so bad.  Idly, he wondered what Victor’s bed smelled like, but then blushed and stopped his thoughts before they could wander farther. 

 _Dammit, Yuri_ he cursed inwardly, _don’t think like that!_

As his mind continued going over their conversation from that day, Yuri hardly noticed as a pair of lights pulled forward and screeched to a stop. 

_Oh, the bus is finally here._

“Yuri?” 

Yuri blinked in confusion—it wasn’t a bus.  It was a car. 

The passenger window slid down and Yuri suddenly forgot how to breathe.

“ _Vlad?_ ”

The Russian man grinned darkly.

“Glad you remembered my name.  But then again, you screamed it so many times, I guess it’d be hard to forget.” 

Yuri paled.  This was the man who had given him the most intense orgasms of his life—his client from last week. 

He popped open the passenger door.

“Get in, Yuri.”

 

* * *

 

Victor hummed along to the radio as he drove to the bus stop where Yuri was at.  Despite Yuri’s insistence that he could take the bus home, Victor felt bad about making the boy walk home when he’d kept him so long.  

Soon enough, he spotted the Japanese boy, shivering with his head buried in Victor’s red scarf, waiting at the stop. 

He smiled, about to pull in front of him, when another car beat him to it. 

To his surprise, the driver pulled to a stop and started talking to Yuri. 

Even more flabbergasting, Yuri looked around nervously before climbing into the car.  

Victor frowned in confusion.

_What was going on?_

Concerned, Victor followed the mysterious car to the next light, staying behind it.  He kind of felt like a stalker, but it was for his student’s sake, he insisted.  Not like he was jealous or anything of Yuri refusing a ride home from him and getting in somebody else’s car…

 _Probably just one of Yuri’s friends_ , he told himself.  But still, something made his stomach clench in worry. 

As he peered at the other car’s rearview mirror, Victor blanched as the recognized the driver, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until the white of his bones showed. 

_Vlad._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP. there it is. hope this clears up any questions y'all had last chapter!  
> I'll try to update soon but today was fdoc so we'll see how this semester goes.....(:


	5. Wreckage

Turquoise eyes narrowed dangerously as his foot crushed the accelerator pedal, focused on only one goal: finding Yuri and asking him how the _hell_ he could get in the car with someone like Vlad. 

And maybe punching Vlad in the throat—that would be nice too. 

The black sedan veered a sharp right, and Victor could barely keep from running over the curb as he followed, still not used to Chicago’s streets.  He’d hardly left the university since arriving.  And it seemed like Vlad suspected someone was pursuing him, from the way he was driving so recklessly. 

Victor hoped Yuri had enough sense to put his seatbelt on. 

Or just get the fuck out of the car and _run for the hills_.

Vladimir was not a good person.  Victor knew that from experience. 

His stomach clenched uneasily, as if the simple thought of the traitor could make him sick to the core. 

 _Not Yuri,_ he thought.  Vlad could have anybody, _anybody_ else. 

In no time at all, Victor was completely flabbergasted as to where they were or whether or not Yuri was being kidnapped.  When he wasn’t paying attention to the road, he was staring at the passenger side of the car.  Yuri had not moved.  That must mean he trusted Vladimir, right?  The thought ate at Victor like an eroding poison and he wondered how his student could be so gullible. 

But then he had to remind himself—he had trusted Vlad too.  And look where that got him.

Shaking off the dread that kept creeping up on him, the silver-haired man veered left after the sedan, cutting across two lanes of traffic without a second thought.  Of course, people hollered at him angrily, hands raised with an explicit finger to the sky, but Victor could care less.  He was, however, starting to worry about where they were going.

As he continued following the other Russian, there were signs he couldn’t miss.  The darkening street corners, the suspicious alleyways, the scantily-clad ladies leaning against lampposts with their beckoning smiles…

They were in the red light district.

Victor’s hands tightened on the wheel, his heart racing almost as fast as his mind.

_Where is he taking Yuri?_

His determination set, Victor knew that he had to get Yuri out of that car as fast as possible. 

As if sensing the professor’s malicious intents, Vlad suddenly sped off, running straight through a red light and leaving Victor to slam angrily on the brakes, a cacophony of horns blaring behind him. 

Victor swore.

His hands dug into the steering wheel, fighting the urge to cross the traffic, but by the time the light turned green, he knew it was pointless.

They were long gone. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Victor arrived at his office hours early.  He didn’t have any classes and he hoped that Yuri would swing by, bringing his scarf with a nervous grin and a flush on his face.  The Russian man sat in his office nervously, idly listening to students ask pointless questions and waving away other professors who offered to take him to lunch. 

It was a vicious cycle.  The door would swing open and Victor would turn around, cobalt eyes radiant, a smile gracing his lips, Yuri’s name on the tip of his tongue, and then—

Nothing.

Not Yuri.

His shoulders would deflate and the other person would stumble back in shock at the sudden change before Victor tuned them out and nodded at everything they said, and then they would _finally_ catch on and leave. 

But despite how many times this happened, Victor could _always_ swear that it was going to be Yuri.  His crooked glasses, his hazelnut eyes, his warm smile, behind the knock on his door. 

Victor could barely remember the last time he was so let down. 

He hardly moved for several hours, even staying late enough that the janitor had to poke his head in and tell him that the building was going to close soon. 

Yuri never appeared. 

 

* * *

 

“Fuck.”

Yuri collapsed onto his bed, groaning in frustration.  He checked his phone.  It was almost 4 AM.  He buried his face into his pillow, resisting the urge to scream. 

He had class at 8 in the morning.  And he still had homework to do.

Sometimes, he wished he wasn’t such a whore.

Resigning to his fate, the dark-haired boy hobbled to the bathroom, the desperate urge to clean himself hounding him like it did every time he fucked a client.  Closing the door gently, he locked it before sliding down it, collapsing like he did every damn time.

Because he never fucking _learned_ , did he?

Peeling his jeans off and wincing as the harsh denim tugged at his bruises, he kicked them off, revealing pale, slender legs marred with dark imprints, like a disease. 

He was a disease.

God, he should’ve just gone home.  What was he thinking?  Oh right, he was thinking about the _money_.  Clenched hands ran through chocolate hair, getting caught in the knots as the first sob escaped his chest. 

It was always about the money.

Turning on the shower, he clambered into the tub, letting the steaming water wash away the fluids, the blood, the tears, the impurity.

 

* * *

 

_“Get in, Yuri.”_

_Without thinking, Yuri obeyed and climbed into the toasty car.  Thankful for the shelter from the cold, he shuddered involuntarily, burying his nose deeper into Victor’s scarf.  He was still giddy from his earlier meeting with his idol and for a second he completely forgot where he was._

_“Where should I drop you off?”  Vlad’s voice cut him off from his thoughts and brought him back to reality._

_“Oh…the school, please.  Anywhere on campus is fine.”_

_Vlad raised an incredulous eyebrow.  “I could just take you back to your house, you know.  It’s really no problem.”_

_Yuri smiled apologetically.  “Ah…um, it’s kind of not smart to let clients know where you live,” he explained softly, running his hands through the red scarf nervously.  He could still smell Victor on it, like summer rain and jasmine.  It relaxed him._

_Vlad chuckled, running a hand through his greying hair.  “My bad, Yuri.  The school it is.”_

_The Russian man took a right a little too sharply before glancing at his rearview mirror suspiciously.  Yuri thought it was a little weird, but thought nothing of it.  The car ride passed by mostly in comfortable silence, with the radio playing quietly in the background, before Vlad started to speak._

_“So, Yuri,” he said, amber eyes glowing with delight._

_“Could I make a deal with you?”_

 

* * *

 

Quivering hands shut off the water as it grew cold.  Wrapping himself in a threadbare towel, Yuri dressed quickly and all but collapsed into bed.  He almost forgot to set an alarm but managed to before falling quickly into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, with barely two hours of sleep, Yuri woke up in a bleary-eyed daze.  He finished his chemistry homework in record time before racing to catch the bus to campus.

In his rush, he left the red scarf hanging on his door. 

 

* * *

 

The next time Yuri saw Victor, it was during class on Friday.

He kept his head down, too ashamed to meet his eyes as he walked into the seminar room, pushing past rows of people as he took a seat in the very back.  He could feel Victor’s piercing gaze burning into him, like the sun melting through layers of permafrost.  It was too much, too hot.  The Japanese student shifted uncomfortably, until Victor finally tore his gaze away. 

“Good morning, everyone!”  The professor announced happily before launching right into his lecture.  The topic today was on clichés in writing and how to differentiate them from archetypes. 

Before long, Yuri felt himself drift off, lulled to calm by Victor’s soft voice; he knew he shouldn’t have stayed up the night before, but then again, he had so much work to catch up on. 

His head slumped behind his laptop and his eyes fluttered close. 

And if Victor noticed anything, he didn’t say it, crystalline eyes gliding smoothly over Yuri’s resting form as he continued his seminar. 

 

* * *

 

_Before Yuri could respond to Vlad, his phone rang._

_Thanking the heavens, Yuri stammered out an apology before answering.  To his surprise, Minako greeted him on the other end._

_“Yuri, can you come in today?”  Her voice sounded strained._

_Yuri’s brows furrowed in confusion._

_“Today’s my day off…?  I thought I didn’t need to come in until next week—”_

_“Yuri, it’s a VIP.”_

_All color washed from his face as he blanched.  VIPs were either famous in the public eye or extremely wealthy, powerful people._

_And they never refused a VIP._

_But the problem was, if Minako wanted him personally…that meant that there was one particular VIP who was coming.  The one who always requested him._

_Yuri hesitated, biting his lip._

_“Yes,” he said finally, “I’m on my way.”_

_Minako’s breath of relief did not go missed by him.  After thanking him profusely, Yuri hung up the phone and looked at Vlad, who had been listening to the entire conversation._

_“I suppose I’ll drop you off at the club instead then?”_

_Yuri nodded, keeping his eyes down._

_“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”_

_Vlad didn’t ask any questions and Yuri was grateful for his silence._

 

* * *

 

The doors to the classroom slammed open with a bang, leaving a small dent in the wall and jolting Yuri from his napping daze. 

“ _VICTOR!_   YOU BASTARD!”

Yuri stared in sleepy confusion at the skinny teen marching across the room to Victor, screaming obscenities in a mix of English and Russian.  The silver-haired man looked sheepish, throwing a strained smile at the livid kid. 

“Alright class,” he announced nervously, “Let’s end early for today, shall we?”

Murmurs of confusion swept through the seminar room, but that quickly hushed as the college students realized their professor dismissed class and they all clambered to leave the room.  Yuri packed his things slowly, glancing at the pale blonde child that just barged into the class (who was currently ripping Victor a new one by the sounds of it). 

“Damn you, Victor!  How could you just leave like that?  You promised me you were going to help me with my short story!”  The young boy sounded absolutely incensed and Yuri could only imagine the look on Victor’s face. 

“Ah…well, you see, Yuri…I completely forgot about that promise I made you.”

Victor was savagely blunt.  The Japanese student almost dropped his laptop in shock as he finished packing, still listening to their conversation. 

“What the _fuck_ , Victor?”  If the boy was angry before, he was downright furious now.  “How could you just up and leave Moscow like that?  Do you know how hard it was to get into your damn writing class?”  This was followed by a string of harsh Russian and judging from the wince that appeared on Victor’s face, it was anything but friendly. 

The brown-haired student swung his backpack on and started walking out of the room.  In his hands was a small bag with a red scarf in it.  He was planning on giving it back after class, but Yuri figured he’d just return Victor’s scarf on Monday, since the latter was currently occupied with a small, screaming Russian. 

The professor smiled, patting the smaller boy on the head like a dog and causing him to be more volatile. 

Yuri walked out of the classroom quietly, shutting the door carefully behind him.  If he had turned around for a moment, he would have seen Victor’s cobalt eyes peering after him, even as he closed the door shut. 

 

* * *

 

_Vlad ran through a red light and Yuri frowned, wanting to say something, but then decided against it._

_He settled for keeping a deathly grip on the handle above his head._

_As the black sedan approached the club, Yuri let out the breath he’d been holding in since he got in the car.  The man was an absolute maniac on the road.  The student promised himself that he was never getting in a car with Vlad again if he could help it._

_Vlad pulled the car up against the road, putting it in park._

_Yuri thanked him before unlocking the door, about to step out when the Russian man stopped him by grabbing his wrist.  Startled, Yuri turned around._

_He pulled him back into the car, grazing his lips with his own in a gentle, simmering kiss.  It was nothing more than a brief touch, far more innocent than anything they’d ever done before, but to Yuri, it felt much more intimate than that._

_He reared back, shocked._

_Vlad gazed at him, his steel eyes striking in the darkness._

_“Yuri,” he said simply, “Be mine.  Just mine—give up working for Minako.”_

_Hazelnut eyes widened in alarm as Yuri struggled to process his words.  In the end, he didn’t say anything, just stared blankly at the Russian man._

_Vlad chuckled softly at his expression._

_“A week.  Spend a week with me and I’ll pay you more than you make in a month.”  He winked at Yuri as the student stepped slowly out of the car, shutting it closed behind him.  Vlad handed him a black card with numbers on it._

_“If you make up your mind, call me.”_

_With that, Vlad sped away, leaving Yuri dazed on the curb of a dirty sidewalk, illuminated by the glow of hazy red lights._

 

* * *

For the second time that day, Yuri _couldn’t breathe_. 

He raced across campus, his heart pounding in his chest as his bookbag thudded painfully against his back with every step he took.  Fear tied his stomach in knots, made him want to curl up on the ground and disappear and die.  But fear also kept him going, sprinting past buildings in people in his desperation. 

At last he arrived at the bus stop, collapsing on the bench and burying his hands in his hair.  Thankfully, he was the only one there.  Most students were in classes, but as soon as he got that phone call, he raced out of the lecture, to the bewilderment of his professor and classmates. 

He didn’t give a damn.  His professor could fail him for all he cared.  Yuri shivered in the cold, inhaling through shaky breaths.   

“Okaa-san…” he croaked. 

_Mom.  His mom._

He fought against the raging panic that threatened to swallow him up, drowning him underneath waves of pain and leaving his corpse in the bottom of a lonely ocean.  Yuri breathed harshly, wrapping his arms around himself, straining to keep the anxiety at bay. 

 _Don’t you dare fucking do this now_ , he snarled at himself.  _Don’t you dare._

The bus will be here soon, he reasoned.  The hospital isn’t that far away. 

As if the universe could hear his thoughts, Yuri looked up as a vehicle pulled up to the stop. 

But for the second time that week, it wasn’t the bus. 

“Yuri?” 

Victor’s worried voice echoed from the driver’s side of the car.  He looked at his student in concern.  Yuri could hardly care how he looked right now, but from the look on Victor’s face, he was guessing it wasn’t pretty.  Hastily, he wiped away the tears that had gathered in the corner of his eyes. 

“Victor, can you take me to the hospital?”  His voice was steeped in desperation. 

The Russian man took a second to process his words, then nodded, his face set in grim determination.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Yuri rushed into the hospital room, almost collapsing from relief when he saw his mom sitting upright in the bed, flipping through a magazine.  Behind him, Victor smiled as he saw the hope spread across Yuri’s strained face.  He stayed outside in the hallway to give them their privacy. 

“Okaa-san!” 

Yuri ran towards her, almost crushing her in his embrace.  She fussed like a hen, wrapping her skinny arms around her son. 

“Oh Yuri,” she exclaimed, a guilty look on her face, “Did I make you worry?  I’m so sorry dear.” 

Yuri shook his head, examining her up and down and checking for any visible signs of injury.

“Are you okay?  What’s wrong—what happened?” 

He missed the somber look that invaded her eyes.  Yuri scanned her wrists, her legs, looking for any bruises or broken bones, exhaling the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when he didn’t see wounds. 

But of course, their enemy wasn’t something that could be seen from the outside. 

“Yuri,” she said softly, taking his warm hands in her cold ones, “The cancer’s back.”  Her voice was calm, like what she just said didn't just destroy Yuri, like it was nothing more discussing the weather, like it didn't _matter_.  

Yuri stared at her in horror as the world was ripped out from underneath his feet.

 

* * *

 

Yuri stood in the waiting room, pacing back and forth.  He decided to let his mom rest and Victor was currently in the bathroom. 

Taking a deep breath, he pulled out a small black card and dialed the numbers. 

“Vlad?  It’s Yuri.”  He paused, his fingers trembling as he said the next words aloud. 

“I accept your proposal.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah...sooooo....yeeeaaahhh....  
> please let me know what you think and if you notice any grammar issues - I typed this in a jiffy and I'm really sorry about any bad writing lol.   
> thank you so much for reading!


	6. Agape

“Um, Victor, are you sure it’s okay for me to stay here?”  Brown eyes widened nervously as Yuri rocked on the balls of his feet.  “I-I’m more than okay at home…”  His voice trailed off. 

After visiting his mom, the doctors told him that she was going to have to stay at the hospital for the night—and possibly longer, depending on how soon they wanted to start her chemotherapy.  Yuri had assumed that Victor was going to just drop him off at home, but the Russian man was utterly aghast at the thought.  _You can’t be alone in a time like this_ , he had said, tears shining in his eyes, his resolution firm as he declared _You’re staying with me._

Yuri knew then that there was nothing his professor couldn’t make him do.

Which explained the current situation: him standing awkwardly in Victor’s living room while the man in question was busying himself in the kitchen. 

A loud bark tore him away from his musings as a brown blur suddenly tackled him to the ground.  Within seconds, a sloppy tongue was licking his face and Yuri coughed in confusion, trying to pry the fluffy beast off of him. 

“ _Makkachin!_ ”  Victor’s voice snapped, coming out of nowhere, “Get off of him—I raised you better than this.”  Yuri noted with wry amusement that he sounded very similar to a frustrated soccer mom. 

Whining, the poodle stepped back enough so that Yuri could sit up without fear of being smothered.  His tail thumped loudly against the ground like a rudder as he practically beamed at the Japanese man. 

“Sorry,” Victor muttered, leaning down and smoothing the curls on Makkachin’s ears, “He’s not usually like this.”

Yuri laughed.  “It’s fine,” he said, before quietly adding, “I used to have a poodle, too.”

_And I named him after you._

But Yuri wasn’t going to tell him that. 

However, it seemed as though Victor had an ear for embarrassing Yuri because he suddenly grew very excited and asked, “Really?  What was his name?”

Flushing red, Yuri stuttered out, “U-um, his name was…er, it was Vicchan!” 

He was grateful for the nickname his mom gave their dog then. 

Victor nodded.  “Cute,” he said simply.  If he noticed anything connecting himself to Yuri’s dog, he didn’t say anything. 

“Here.”

Leaning down, the Russian man handed Yuri a mug.  He took it curiously, staring at the cream on top, enjoying the way it warmed his fingers. 

“It’s hot chocolate,” Victor said, resolving the unasked question forming at the tip of Yuri’s tongue.  His voice grew softer.  “I thought it might make you feel better.”

A flush spread across Yuri’s cheeks and he cursed his paleness, mumbling out a thank you before gingerly taking a sip. 

Almost immediately, Yuri recoiled.  The drink had burnt his tongue and his hand flinched, dropping the mug in the process.  The chocolate spilled all over his shirt and he yelped, jumping to his feet. 

Victor was beside him in a second and Yuri started to apologize for spilling the dark liquid all over his pristine carpet but the older man ignored him completely. 

“Yuri!  Are you okay?”  His brows were creased in worry, his mouth pulling down into a frown.  His nimble hands tugged at the corners of Yuri’s shirt.  “We have to get this off of you.”

Panic seized Yuri as he almost toppled backwards in his rush to get away.  _No.  Victor can’t see me without my shirt on—he…he would see the bruises._

_And then he would ask questions._

“ _No!_ ”  Yuri yelled in alarm, slapping Victor’s hands away.  “I’m fine, I’ll—I’ll just go to the bathroom,” He exclaimed, flustered as he tried to ignore the pained look in Victor’s eyes, pushing past him to the hallway.    

He stood in confusion for a few seconds until Victor’s voice called out quietly, the hurt in his voice still evident, “Second on the left.” 

Yuri nodded before practically sprinting for the room. 

Once hidden in the bathroom, Yuri slumped against the door, burying his hands in his hair. 

 _Oh, fuck._ He thought, cursing himself and his situation. 

 _Victor was only trying to help and I just had to freak out like that_ , he berated himself, toes curling in frustration. 

A minute passed before a quiet knock sounded at the door. 

“Yuri?”  Victor asked softly.  “I have a change of clothes for you, if you want.” 

Taking a shaky breath, Yuri stood up slowly.  He braced himself before opening the door. 

“Victor?”

He stared at his professor, ready to explain himself, but Victor beat him to it. 

“Yuri,” he said somberly, his cobalt eyes wrenched in pain, “I’m…I’m really sorry about before.  It was unprofessional and completely out of line,” he paused and then handed Yuri a bundle of clothes, his voice firm.  “It won’t happen again.”

Yuri simply stared at him, his hands quivering as he tried to form words.

_It’s not your fault, Victor._

“I…I, it’s—”

_I just didn’t want you to see me like that._

“Y-you’re fine, it’s…”

_I’m ugly.  My body is ugly._

“I—I…I’m sorry,” he said finally.

Victor smiled hesitantly at him, his bangs falling over his eyes as he nodded, turning away.

“Go get changed, I’ll be in the living room.” 

Yuri closed the bathroom door and locked it, slumping down and curling into a tight ball, pressing the clothes Victor gave him to his chest.  He inhaled slowly.

 _Ah,_ he thought.  _It smells just like his scarf…_

“I’m an idiot,” he murmured, bowing his head as the first tears began. 

 

* * *

 

Victor buried his face into Makkachin’s fur, ignoring the concerned whines from his dog as he lay dangling on the couch.

“What the fuck was I thinking?” He whispered, turning over and letting Makkachin lick his cheeks.  “Did I seriously try to strip my _student_?  He—he’s, God, Yuri…” He buried his face in his hands, groaning in pain.

_He’s barely legal._

_His mom just got diagnosed with cancer, again._

_His sister is studying abroad._

_I don’t even know anything about his dad…_

As Victor mentally checked off all of the things life was currently slamming Yuri with, he grew more and more despairing.

_Holy fuck, Victor what is wrong with you?_

 

* * *

 

Victor bowed low to the small Japanese woman sitting on the hospital bed.  Yuri had gone to talk to the doctors so the Russian man figured he might as well introduce himself…and maybe get to know the woman who raised Yuri. 

“Hello,” he greeted her, smiling brightly.  “I’m Victor Nikiforov—I’m one of Yuri’s professors.  I gave him a ride here.”

He saw the tell-tale recognition on her face as her eyes widened and she let out a small, “Oh!”

And then Hiroko smiled warmly and Victor could see where Yuri got his own smiles from. 

“You’re the author of _Agape_ and _Eros_ right?”  She exclaimed, clapping her hands together, “Oh, Yuri-chan _loves_ your books!  He was so excited when he found out you were teaching a class of his, he started eating katsudon again!”

Turquoise eyes widened in confusion.

Yuri…he’d read his books before?

“My goodness, I can’t believe you’ve come all the way to Chicago,” she continued gushing, unaware of how flabbergasted the Russian man was, “This is a dream come true for Yuri—he’s loved you since he was little!” 

She paused, thinking for a moment, “He even convinced us to get a _poodle_ —he kept saying how Victor has a poodle—so therefore he has to have one, too—and he even named it after you,” she chuckled, eyes warming like chocolate as she talked about her son. 

“I’m…sorry?”

 _Yuri’s a fan?  He’s read my books?  He named his_ dog _after me?_

Victor could feel his heart fluttering, trying to fly out but he shoved his feelings back down.  _No_ , he told himself firmly, _Yuri is your student_. 

But still, a part of him wondered: why hadn’t Yuri told him anything?

And even worse, another part of him held onto hope. 

“Oh,” Hiroko breathed, a flush rising to her cheeks, “I don’t think Yuri-chan would like it if he realized I told you…He’d be so embarrassed.” She grinned sheepishly. 

Victor nodded.  “He won’t hear a word from me,” he said resolutely. 

The Japanese woman giggled at their little secret.  Victor liked her laugh—it was warm and bubbly.  He wondered if Yuri got his laugh from her too, and then he realized: he really wanted to hear Yuri laugh.

But even more than that—he really wanted to _make_ Yuri laugh. 

“Thank you, Vicchan,” she said, smiling affectionately at him.  “I haven’t seen Yuri smile in a while, but ever since you came…” her voice trailed off as her eyes shifted, looking somewhere far away that Victor couldn’t see. 

Victor wondered what this strong, little woman had gone through, what her family had gone through—what her son had gone through. 

“Yuri has a gentle heart,” she said finally, turning her soft gaze back towards him.

“Please, don’t break it.”

 

* * *

 

The squeak of the bathroom door tore Victor from his musings.  He sat up, fingers curling into Makkachin’s fur, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.  Did Yuri hate him?  What if he never wanted to see him again?  His chest constricted painfully— _what if he dropped his class?_

Yuri poked his head into the room curiously, his face flushed pink. 

“Um, Victor?” 

He walked in, and Victor knew then and there that he was uncontrollably, irrevocably, absolutely _screwed_. 

“They’re a little big…”

His cotton shirt was a little big on Yuri and hung loosely on him.  His pants were definitely too long for the 18-year-old, the hem dragging the floor as the teen shuffled in nervously. 

Victor had never seen anybody more beautiful. 

His heart agreed, nearly stopping for a second as he openly gaped at the Japanese boy.  Maybe it was the fact that Yuri was a brilliant writer who convinced him to move across the world, or perhaps because Yuri had the most amazing smile he’d ever seen before—or maybe even it was the fact that he was simply wearing his clothes, but Victor knew true and well right then—he felt something more than a teacher should feel for his student.    

“Y-you can stay in the guest room tonight,” he said finally, tearing his gaze away. 

He could already imagine the gallons of liquor he was going to drink as he despaired with Chris. 

 

* * *

 

Yuri shifted under the covers, eyes open wide as he stared at the ceiling.  Sighing, he turned over onto his side, fingers pressing his phone as it lit up.  He stared at the time: 3:14 AM.  A groan escaped his lips as he buried his face into the pillow. 

That was the problem with his occupation—his entire sleeping schedule was messed up beyond repair. 

 _At least tomorrow’s Saturday,_ he thought sullenly.

Nearly overcome with frustration, Yuri threw the blankets to the side, not bothering to slip on his glasses as he crawled out of bed. 

Maybe a glass of water would help.

The Japanese student bit his lip. 

_Victor wouldn’t mind...right?_

He shook his head, pushing aside a strong urge to slap himself.  Of course Victor wouldn’t mind if he got a glass of water.  What was he, five?

Mind decisively set, Yuri opened his door with a squeak, sticking his head out into the hall.  To his surprise, one of the doors was open.  Light from the room flooded the hallway.  Curiously, Yuri walked towards it, like a moth drawn to flame.  It was so late…Victor _surely_ couldn’t still be awake, right?

As he neared the door, Yuri could hear the scratching of pen against paper, rhythmic and oddly soothing.  He entered the room cautiously. 

It was an office, and the first thing Yuri noticed was the large bookcase shoved up against the wall.  There were books everywhere, some rammed into the bookcase, while others were haphazardly stacked anywhere there was room.  An old leather couch situated in the center of it all, with an open book resting face down on it.  Yuri blinked in surprise—this room was a complete contrast to the modern style of the rest of Victor’s apartment. 

The Russian man himself was sitting behind a large wooden desk, his silver hair spilling over his eyes, head bent in concentration as he wrote in a thick journal.  Makkachin was curled up by his feet, snoring away like a teddy bear.  It took Victor several seconds to notice Yuri.  He shifted up, mouth opening in surprise as he saw his student. 

“Yuri!”  He said, brows pulling together in confusion, “Is something wrong?” 

The Japanese boy shook his head, heat rising to his cheeks as he struggled to explain his situation. 

“Ah, no.  I—I just…” 

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

Victor smiled sympathetically before gesturing to the couch in the room. 

“You can stay here, if you’d like.  Feel free to grab a book, too.”  He turned quickly back to his work, writing fluidly as his pen resumed its previous dance on paper. 

Yuri nodded in thanks before taking a seat on the couch.  He picked up the open book curiously. 

 _Poems of Ice_ by Vitya N. 

Thumbing through the pages, he frowned as he realized it was in Russian.  He flipped it casually on the back, hoping for a summary.  There was nothing.  Even more surprising, half of the pages were blank. 

 _Weird_ , he thought.  He’d never heard of the author either. 

“Oh,” Victor said, frowning as he looked up, his hand stilling.  “That’s…not a very good book.”

Yuri stared at him in confusion. 

Victor didn’t offer an explanation, merely turning back to his work. 

Shrugging, Yuri set the book back down and reached for another one that sat on a towering stack of tomes that looked like they could topple over if he breathed too hard. 

 _Victor is really disorganized…_ he thought, lips curling in amusement. 

To his surprise, the book he chose was one he recognized very well. 

 _On Love: Agape_ by Victor Nikiforov. 

Sneaking a quick glance at Victor, Yuri was glad his professor was too engrossed in his work to notice the novel he’d chosen.  Curling up against the side of the couch, Yuri peeled open the book, smiling as familiar words greeted his eyes. 

_“That’s the thing about love—it doesn’t stay.”_

 

* * *

 

Victor looked up from his work hours later, his eyes bleary from staring at paper so long.  His hand ached, but it was nothing compared to the fluttering of excitement rising in his chest. 

It’d been so long since the words flowed from his pen, so long since he’d written anything worthwhile.  He smiled happily, eyes shifting to the sleeping Japanese boy curled up on his couch. 

_And it was all because of Yuri._

His dark hair was splayed carelessly across his forehead, his lashes brushing against his cheeks as he slumbered on peacefully.  Even though he was sleeping deeply, his hand still kept a tight hold on his book, fingers resting where he’d stopped reading. 

He was his inspiration, his muse. 

 _And maybe_ , Victor thought, eyes softening as he peered at the resting boy, _maybe even something more than that._  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO HAS AN EXAM TOMORROW BUT DECIDED TO WRITE A NEW CHAPTER INSTEAD???  
> sorry for the late update but..we made it fam. CHAPTER FT HIROKO BC SHE'S THE CUTEST OMG.  
> Enjoy and let me know what you think!!!


	7. Home

Yuri was pretty sure he was about to die. 

Or maybe, he’d _already_ died and he was in heaven.

Because he was pretty sure this was the closest to pure bliss that he’d ever get.

He stared in a mix of awe and something else he couldn’t place as he took in the slumbering Russian man curled up against him.  Victor breathed softly, murmuring something intelligible as he buried his face deeper into Yuri’s neck; Yuri shivered involuntarily as his cold nose brushed against his jaw but he couldn’t bring himself to push Victor away.  In his sleep, Victor had wound his hands around his waist and tangled his legs between Yuri’s. 

Yuri hesitantly brought a hand up and pushed away the silver strands that had fallen over Victor’s face.  Then he blushed bright red.  He couldn’t believe he just did that. 

A voice tugged at his brain—something about student-teacher relationships, but Yuri pushed it aside. 

He was pretty sure his job was a lot worse than sharing a bed with his professor. 

Besides…he knew Victor was straight.  In every literal sense of the word.  Ever since the writer had shot to fame a few years back, he’d gained a reputation as a notorious playboy.  Everywhere he went, he was photographed with beautiful women fawning over him.  Actresses, singers, models—they all fell for the maelstrom that was Victor Nikiforov.

And so did Yuri.

Anyways, he was pretty sure Victor was only trying to be nice.  After all, he had fallen asleep in his office, and it was really thoughtful of the Russian man to put him in bed.  A little strange of him to get in there as well, but Yuri just brushed it off as a culture thing.  So what if he was a little touchy-feely?  That didn’t mean anything. 

Despite these assertions, the Japanese boy wished he could’ve stayed in bed like that forever, lost in the fantasy of the early morning and the halcyon light that streamed across Victor’s face. 

But life had never been a big fan of him.

A few seconds later, his phone rang, taking a sledgehammer to the peaceful moment and shattering it completely. 

Victor stirred, whining against his neck and pulling the sheets over his head. 

Yuri thought that was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. 

Despite wishing his phone would just shut up, he knew it could be important.  He knew it could be the hospital, or his mom. 

He sighed, picking up and answering. 

“Hello?”

“ _Yuri_.”

Vlad’s voice washed over him like velvet and the Japanese boy immediately felt himself blushing.  Beside him, Victor stiffened for a split second before relaxing back into his sleep.

_Was I too loud?_

Deciding it was a conversation best kept to himself, Yuri slipped out of bed smoothly, untangling himself from Victor with some hesitancy.

He wandered down the hall to the bathroom before closing the door and replying to his client in private.  He wasn’t sure what he’d tell Victor if the other man overheard. 

“Vlad,” he said quietly, leaning against the sink, the phone tucked loosely in his hands. 

“Our deal starts tonight,” the Russian man reminded him, his voice husky with a mix of possessiveness and something darker.  It made Yuri shiver. 

“I know,” he replied, his grip tightening on his phone.  He’d enjoyed Vlad—the Russian man was arguably the best fuck he’d ever had in his life.  And he knew Vlad was a thoughtful person, from the way he genuinely cared about his pleasure, wrenching orgasm after orgasm from him, and the fact that he’d given driven Yuri to Minako’s the other night. 

_So why did he feel like he was signing his life away?_

“I’ll pick you up at Minako’s.  8pm.  Wear something nice.”

His voice left no room for argument.  And to his surprise, Yuri found that he really, _really_ liked that. 

The student agreed and hung up the phone before exiting the bathroom.  Upon leaving the room however, Yuri found that he almost had a heart attack. 

“ _AH!_ ”  He shrieked as he swung open the door, jumping a solid foot in the air. 

Standing eerily close to the bathroom was Victor, who was smiling like nothing was wrong. 

He’d scared the wits out of him but the Russian man didn’t seem to have noticed anything was wrong with his behavior. 

“Good morning, Yuri!” He chirped, grinning as radiant as the sun, “Did you want any breakfast?”

Yuri shook his head, still dazed from his shock. 

“Er—no, I’m good, thanks,” he paused for a moment, “Actually, I-I have to run home soon, thank you for letting me stay the night but—”

Victor silenced him with a wave of his hand. 

“Oh no, Yuri, I talked to your mother—she called while you were in the bathroom,” _when had Victor even gotten her phone number?_ “And we’ve decided that you’re staying with me from now on!”

The words took a full minute to register.  And when they did, Yuri found himself spluttering like a fool.   

“Wait— _what?!”_

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take long to move Yuri’s stuff into Victor’s apartment; he didn’t have much to begin with.  Just some clothes and his books.  It was barely midmorning by the time they finished and Victor promised that he’d make them some food while Yuri busied himself with putting away his things.

Turns out, Victor was very, _very_ bad at cooking. 

As Yuri finished tucking his books into the bookcase, an alarming scent wafted through the loft, causing him to freeze in horror.  It was a mix of burnt onions and rotten eggs that made him cringe. 

“Victor?”  He called out hesitantly. 

There was no response, but a second later, a screaming Russian man ran into his room. 

“YURI!” He wailed, “It just—caught on fire, I don’t know what happened!”  He waved around a burnt spatula in distress. 

“ _What?”_

Yuri raced down the hall to the kitchen, almost screeching in shock at the sight that awaited him: a full-on flame rising from a pan with something that looked like mushy ashes in it.  Makkachin was howling at the fire, barking in worry as Victor continued screeching in panic.  The sight itself would’ve been comedic if Yuri hadn’t been concentrating on keeping the entire apartment complex from burning down. 

The Japanese student asked no questions, immediately turning off the stove and pulling the pan away before tossing it into the sink and dousing the fire with water.  Clouds of steam rose, obscuring the room in a fluffy veil before the smoke alarm started blaring. 

Brown eyes stared, deadpanned with the sympathy of a black hole, at a sheepish Victor. 

The Russian man rubbed the nape of his neck and laughed nervously. 

“Um…I guess we could go out for lunch instead…?”

Yuri nodded gravely. 

“Good idea.”

 

* * *

 

They’d enjoyed a quiet lunch in a café close to the school.  Apparently, Victor came here a lot because the food was good, and of course, because he was a nightmare in the kitchen.  Yuri insisted on doing all the cooking from now on—not only because Victor was letting him stay in his apartment for free, but also because the Russian man could probably accidentally burn down the entire block. 

He shuddered as he thought back to the burn catastrophe that Victor called “scrambled eggs”. 

After lunch, they went to the store and bought actual groceries because Victor didn’t really own much besides tea, coffee, and a shit ton of alcohol.  When Yuri questioned him about it, the Russian man seemed surprised: _didn’t everybody drink that much?_ he’d asked. 

Victor didn’t seem like an alcoholic—Yuri decided that he wasn’t going to burst his bubble. 

Currently, they were back at the apartment after putting away the groceries.  Yuri, Victor, and Makkachin were sprawled on the couch, exhausted after the day’s activities.

Well, they were mostly tired from Victor’s cooking stunt—Makkachin seemed to have experienced some trauma as well because he refused to set paw in the kitchen despite offerings of kibble _and_ bacon. 

Victor thought he might need counseling. 

Yuri wasn’t sure dog therapists were a thing.

Victor insisted that they were.

But curled up on the couch with Victor and Makkachin, Yuri felt something he’d long forgotten—simple happiness.  It was like a dream, a beautiful domestic fantasy.  They’d laughed with each other, joked around, bought groceries— _argued about having their dog see a therapist_ for goodness sakes.  It was like they were an old married couple. 

Like Victor wasn’t this unreachable hero.

Like Yuri wasn’t a whore.    

Like there wasn’t millions and millions of miles between them. 

Yuri sighed, a thrum of pain running through his chest as he thought about all the things that would never be—that never _could_ be.

Victor Nikiforov falling for him was one of those things.

But from the way Victor was leaning on him, his arm wrapped around Yuri’s shoulders (in a purely friendly way, he reminded himself), Yuri thought that he could indulge in his fantasy just a little bit longer. 

It was scary how fast his professor had gotten so close.  Yuri hardly had any friends; he was a naturally shy and quiet person.  But with Victor, everything was so easy.  Simple, like all his worries could be wiped away with the Russian man’s radiant smile, or his carefree laughter. 

But things were never easy, not for Yuri.

The afternoon rolled away far too quickly, and before he knew it, it was time for his appointment with Vlad. 

Yuri explained it away to Victor the same way he placated his mom—late shift as a server in a restaurant.  But unlike his mother, Victor asked questions. 

“What’s the name of the restaurant?”

Yuri said that it was some foreign word he couldn’t pronounce. 

“Where’s it at?”

A couple blocks away from the school, not too far, but he wasn’t sure exactly what street it was on. 

“I’ll drive you.”

No, that wasn’t necessary, Yuri responded.  Besides, he liked to walk, he insisted when Victor began to argue. 

Begrudgingly, Victor accepted that he just wasn’t going to get anything out of Yuri.  By the time 7 rolled around, Yuri had showered and was wearing the only nice thing he owned—a button up with an old black tie and some slacks.  Pulling at the collar, he frowned.  He hated ties. 

He was about to leave the apartment when Victor stopped him. 

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride?”  He pressed again, a silver brow arched in question. 

Yuri assured him—for the _billionth_ time—that he was fine walking. 

The Russian man sighed, moving towards Yuri as he adjusted the other man’s collar.  The Japanese student blushed furiously as Victor’s fingers accidentally brushed past his throat.  Victor appraised him at an arm’s length. 

“You look really handsome, Yuri,” he said simply, giving Yuri a once over.  Again, the brunette reddened painfully at the compliment.  “Though,” Victor said, frowning as he grasped Yuri’s tie, “I think we’ll have to get you a new tie.  Maybe a bow-tie?  That’d look really cute on you.”

Yuri made a face at the words ‘bow-tie’ and Victor laughed.  He didn’t remove his hands from Yuri’s shoulders until the other squirmed uncomfortably. 

“Don’t wait up,” he said as he turned to leave.  Victor’s voice made him pause. 

“Oh wait—Yuri, I almost forgot...!” 

Brown eyes widened in surprise as Victor pulled a key from his pocket.  He placed it in Yuri’s palm before pulling the shocked student in for a tight hug. 

“I had it made earlier today, when we were at the store,” he explained, burying his head into the shorter man’s hair before pulling away. 

“I figured…since you’re living here now, it might be a little easier if you just had your own…” his voice trailed off uncertainly. 

It might’ve been the light or a trick of his eyes, but Yuri could’ve swore he saw a light dusting of pink appear on the other’s nose and cheeks. 

Yuri smiled, beaming up at the other man as he slid the key into his pocket.  He ignored the painful throbbing in his chest.  _It was just a key.  It didn’t mean anything._  

“Thank you, Victor,” he said simply. 

The Russian man definitely blushed this time as he smiled back, nodding. 

“Come home soon, okay Yuri?”

He promised that he would.  He liked the sound of that—home, with Victor. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAH IM SO SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE, PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!   
> School has been rough lately but now that I'm on break, I'm gonna try and write as much as possible and catch up(:   
> PLEASE ENJOY AND LMK WHAT YOU THINK! Sorry for this kinda filler-ish chapter but it's gonna be so much angst from here so I figured some domestic Victuuri would be good for our souls(:
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!


	8. A Long Night

 Victor sat in his office and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.  He tried reading the paper—for the third time—again.  It wasn't anything worth noting: a pretty average freshman paper with a few grammar mistakes here and there.

Not anything like Yuri's writing.

He groaned, slumping into his arms.  

_Fuck._

There he goes again, thinking about Yuri.  His thoughts always wandered back to the brilliant Japanese student, no matter how hard he tried.

That's why he hadn't gotten anything done the entire night.

He knew Yuri was at work, he'd said so himself, but Victor couldn't help but worry. Especially not after he heard Vlad call him that morning.  

At least, Victor was _pretty_ sure the man on the other end was Vladimir, but he didn't want to invade Yuri's privacy.  He deserved that much, at least.  However, there was a mystery surrounding his student that Victor was desperate to know—why Yuri wouldn't tell him where he worked, why he didn't know when he'd be back, why he had those bruises on his hips.

It was a complete accident; Victor saw the dark imprints when they shared a bed the night before.  Yuri had rolled over and his shirt had ridden up in his sleep, and Victor was still up reading a book, and he'd seen them—nasty bruises that trailed down Yuri's slender hips.  

They'd reminded him immediately of fingerprints.  But Victor shook the thought away.  He respected Yuri, so he didn't want to pry, especially after the hot chocolate incident.

Still, they worried him.   _Yuri_ worried him.

Not to mention how deep Victor had gotten into the Japanese boy's life.  He wasn't sure what drew him to Yuri, like a moth to a flame, but he knew that was bound to be burned soon.  

He couldn't control himself around Yuri, at all.  He'd carried him to bed, and then for some God-forsaken reason thought it was okay to get in there with him.  Not that they'd done anything besides sleep, but what if the school found out?  What if the press found out?  Student-professor relationships were already incredibly unprofessional and a gay one at that—Victor's reputation would be in tatters.

The smart thing would've been to quietly support Yuri but no—somehow he'd offered his home to the boy so now they were going to see each other every day.  They were going to be living together. Victor wasn't sure how he was going to control himself, how he wasn't going to let his feelings slip, his mind wander.

Sighing, the professor stood up from his desk and stretched before walking to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

The restaurant Vlad had taken him was nice—too nice, even.  In his ratty old tie, he felt massively underdressed and flushed red the moment they walked in.  As if sensing his unease, Vlad had simply pulled him close by the waist and whispered that he looked lovely into his ear.  Yuri nodded, still uneasy as the waiter led them to their table.  

Vlad pulled back his chair for him and while Yuri appreciated the gesture, it made him squirm in discomfort.

It caught too much attention.

And once they were finally settled in, Yuri took one glance at the menu and blanched paler than the fine china on the table.

Honestly, this entire experience was a bit too much.

He made to tell Vlad that he wasn’t probably going to get anything but the older man stopped him with an easy smile that melted Yuri’s working brain.

“I know this is probably out of your price range, Yuri,” he said, reaching under the table and grasping Yuri’s hand, “But it’s my treat.  I told you, didn’t I?  I’ll take care of you.”

The raven-haired boy simply nodded, flushing at his words.  Vlad chuckled, running his thumb against the inside of his wrist, electrifying his skin. 

A few moments later, the waiter came back around and Vlad ordered for them both—a combination of French words Yuri couldn’t comprehend and two glasses of Pinot Noir.  Yuri wasn’t really a big fan of wine—or alcohol in general—but he wasn’t going to refuse the drink.

Not when it cost more than he made in a day.  

But he had to keep in mind the fact that he couldn’t drink _too_ much, mainly because his tolerance was next to none.  He shuddered, thinking about a frat party Phichit had dragged him to, early last semester.

From what he remembered, there was a lot of vomiting and hiding from the RA and waking up next to the toilet bowl in a mix of pain and self-hatred. 

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

Still, when the waiter came back with a glass of red for both of them, Yuri nursed his drink, taking ginger sips and silently appraising Vlad.   _They really hadn’t spoken much…_

It seemed as though the Russian man noticed the same thing because he was the first one to break the silence.

“You’re really quiet, you know—outside of the bedroom,” Vlad noted, enjoying the way Yuri’s eyes widened.  He laughed as Yuri nearly choked on his drink, stammering out intelligible words.    

“But that’s fine,” the Russian man smiled, his eyes turning lecherous, “I like making you scream.”

Yuri idly wondered if it was possible to die from blushing too much. 

He reached for his wine again and this time, took a deep draught.    

It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

“It’s a _damn shame_ , Chris,” Victor muttered, taking another shot of Jack Daniel’s and slamming it down on the kitchen counter.  Usually, he didn’t drink whiskey—he hated the taste, to be honest—but when he wanted to get fucked up beyond belief, whiskey was his go-to.

And _man_ , he wanted to forget his name tonight.

He wanted to forget _Yuri’s_ name tonight.

At the very least, he’d forgotten completely about grading his papers.  Originally, his plan was to drink a nice glass of chardonnay and relax, but then he remembered the whiskey he kept in the back of his liquor cabinet.  A quick text to Christophe provided him with the company he needed to finish off the handle.

Beside him, his sober friend, (who had to drive home, after all) shook his head and made a _tsking_ noise.

“You fucked up, Victor,” he said simply, pouring another shot for the groaning Russian man.  Victor nodded appreciatively and gestured for him to keep pouring until the liquor hit the brim and threatened to slosh over the rim. 

Most friends would pull away the bottle and take away his glass, drone on and on about how alcohol doesn’t solve problems, but not Chris.  Chris would probably call him a pussy if he _didn’t_ finish the entire bottle by himself.

Maybe that’s why Victor liked him so much.

“He’s _eighteen_ —he’s a practically a baby!” The Russian man groaned pinching the bridge of his nose, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

Christophe patted his back sympathetically.

“Wow, Victor,” he paused, “You’re kinda like a fucking pedophile.”

Victor took a large swig straight from the bottle.

 

* * *

 

Yuri giggled, grinning mischievously as Vlad ran his fingers up his sides and under his shirt before yanking it over his head.  He moaned as the taller man bent down and caught his lips in a heated exchange, tongues battling for dominance as his back hit the hotel room door. 

Fumbling with the key-card, Vlad finally managed to pry open the door and usher them both in before Yuri was on him again, lips biting and sucking his neck.  Chuckling, Vlad gave a low whistle as he appraised the Japanese student. 

Yuri’s face was flushed, a mixture of too much wine and excitement.  His eyes were blown wide, his pupils fading into his dark irises as his breath quickened with need. 

Maybe he was just doing it for the money, or maybe he actually liked being a whore—Vlad didn’t care.

As long as Yuri was his. 

Before long, they’d straggled their way to the bed, clothes tossed aside in the turmoil.  Vlad remembered the condom and a bottle of lube, but as they reached the bed, Yuri dropped to his knees with a shy smile. 

And Vlad figured that was fine too. 

 

* * *

 

It was _so late_.  Past 3am now.  Christophe had left earlier a couple hours earlier, after guffawing at the complete mess Victor had become. 

And it was true; Victor was drunk off his mind.  The Russian man didn’t typically drink that much. 

But _God_ , it was 3am and night shifts can’t possibly last this long and do restaurants really stay open this late?   _And where was Yuri?_     

So he kept drinking, shot after shot until his eyes were so bleary that he could hardly keep them open.  He pressed his cheek against the cool marble countertop, sighing as the cold chilled his flushed face.  Victor had tried reading an essay again—mainly because he’d realized how far behind he was and panicked—but the words jumbled together and he realized it was fruitless. 

Also, he may have spilt a _tiny, itsy bit_ of wine on the paper but it was white wine so it really doesn’t count. 

Plus, the paper was absolute trash anyways, because whoever wrote it _obviously_ had no idea what comma splices were. 

Comma splices, Victor decided, were the devil.  He hated comma splices more than anything in this world and if Yuri was with him right now, they could be laughing at this kid’s improper use of commas and then maybe Yuri would fall in love with him and he would propose when the sakuras bloomed in Japan and they could move back to Russia and have four children running around in St. Petersburg. 

He already had their names picked out: Anya, Lilliana, Nikoli, and—

“Victor…?” 

The silver-haired man spun his head around so fast the world spun dizzily for a moment.  He was so far gone that he hadn’t heard the door open.  Beaming as his eyes met Yuri’s tired form, Victor launched himself from his chair.

Only to fall straight to the floor. 

“Yuri~!” He said happily, his words slurring, “’m missed youu…!”  He tried pushing himself up on his arms but they refused to listen.

He immediately blamed the comma splices. 

The Japanese student looked startled as he knelt down to help the drunken man up. 

“Victor, how much did you drink?”  His voice was laced with concern. 

Smiling broadly and wrapping his arms around Yuri’s neck, he replied, “’m nah even drunk…” 

However, as he leaned against Yuri, pressing his nose into the crook of his shoulder, he noticed, even in his highly intoxicated state, that Yuri smelled _weird_.  Like a mixture of harsh wine, sweat, and the sinful smell of _sex_. 

Victor pulled back from Yuri, frowning and gazing up accusingly at the Japanese boy. 

“Yuri,” he sniffed, “Why d’ya smell so…weird?”

The younger male immediately stiffened. 

“I don’t,” he said flatly, “You’re drunk, Victor.”

At the sharp tone of his voice, Victor’s azure eyes watered until he was blinking back tears.  It took Yuri a moment to notice, but when he did, his face immediately softened into a mix of sympathy and regret. 

“Victor,” he sighed, pulling the Russian man in for a tight hug, “I didn’t mean that.”  His voice was placating and heartbreakingly remorseful. 

At that moment, Victor realized that Yuri could probably murder somebody and he’d gladly help him bury the body. 

After a couple minutes, Yuri managed to pull Victor to his feet and helped him into the bedroom, nearly dropping him on the floor a few times before finally getting him into bed.  As he turned to leave, Victor whined so pitifully that he promised he’d be back. 

The Russian man forced himself to stay awake until Yuri was done with his shower.  After what seemed like forever, Yuri sauntered in with his hair still wet and clambered into bed next to Victor. 

And then he started crying.

No, crying was not the right word.  Sobbing, maybe.  Tearing his heart out, perhaps.  But not crying—crying was too weak a word to describe the raw pain ripping through the young student.  Even in his inebriated state, Victor knew something was wrong.  So he wrapped his arms around Yuri’s trembling body, entwining their legs so that nobody could tell where one began and the other ended, and he whispered promises of safety into his ear and pressed gentle kisses against his temple until the Japanese boy finally drifted off into an exhausted sleep. 

And then Victor vowed, on his grave, that he would find out why his precious Yuri had been so hurt and he would make it better.  He would do anything, to keep Yuri from breaking apart like that again. 

But the next morning, Victor remembered nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmaooo this is why you shouldnt drink kiddies  
> AND THANKS SO MUCH TO @yuurii FOR BETA-ING!!!!  
> also any guesses as to what Vlad did to make Yuri break down? (;


	9. The Problem With Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER ANGST WARNING!!! ALSO SUPER NON-CON WARNING!!! TURN BACK NOW KIDDIES
> 
> p.s. the only reason this chapter got written was bc of my beautiful beta, @yuurii who is the literal goat.

_ “Yuri, I’m so sorry.” _

_ Pale fingers tightened their hold on the cellphone.Yuri bit his lip, pacing up and down the hall before finally coming to a stop against the wall.He glanced at the door to Victor’s bedroom; the soft snores that filled the empty space calmed his racing heart. _

_ He was still asleep. _

_ “Yuri, please, please say something.”Vlad’s velvety voice was drowned in sorrow, every word brimming with regret. _

He really is sorry _, Yuri thought, chewing his lip in deep consideration._

_ “It’ll never happen again,” Vlad pleaded, “Yuri?Please, say something, love.” _

_ At last, Yuri responded. _

_ “Okay,” he said simply, “I believe you.” _

_ A sigh of relief echoed through the phone. _

_ “Thank you,” Vlad breathed, and then quietly, “I love you, Yuri.You know that?” _

_ The Japanese boy’s face flamed and despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to run, every alarm going off in his head, he couldn’t help but believe those words—couldn’t help but  _ want _to believe him._

_ That Vlad loved him.That he was someone that could be loved. _

_ So at that moment, Yuri knew that no matter what Vlad did, he could forgive him.That was what love was, right? _

_ And he could learn to love Vlad.He was sure of it. _

_ “I know.” _

 

* * *

  


“Oh, good morning Yuri!”Victor called out, smiling brightly as Yuri ran down the stairs, a backpack slung across his shoulder haphazardly.The Russian man stood by the stove, a childishly pink apron wrapped around his torso as he waved a spatula around.He beamed at his student, proud that he hadn’t managed to burn the scrambled eggs this morning.

“I made breakfast if you—” He started, but Yuri brushed right past him, heading straight for the door immediately.The Japanese boy’s face was waxen and his eyes looked dull, like a dense fog clouding over glass.

“Sorry, Victor,” he mumbled, not meeting the other’s gaze, “I’m not hungry.”

He pulled open the apartment door and left as abruptly as he appeared.

Victor’s smile fell from his face.

_ What did I do? _

It had been three days of this.Three days of Yuri running away, making the most awful excuses just to get away from him.It had been that way since the night Victor got so hammered, he couldn’t remember what had happened.

He didn’t even remember inviting Chris over until the Swedish man texted him the next morning, asking if he was still alive.There was absolutely no memory of that night; he couldn’t even recall if Yuri came home or not.

A flame of guilt burned across his chest.

He was responsible for Yuri.He’d promised Hirokothat.He’d promised _himself_ that.Yuri was so beautiful, so kind, and gentle— _how could Victor have been so careless_?

A darker thought flickered across his head and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

_ Did I hurt him somehow? _

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he groaned, burrowing his head into his arms, breakfast all but forgotten as his mind ran through all the possibilities drunk Victor could’ve done.He was positive he wouldn’t have done anything to harm Yuri physically, but what if he’d said something stupid?

_ What if he’d admitted his feelings for him? _

Shit. _Shit_.

Drunk Victor was a traitorous bastard and there was a _definite_ possibility that this could’ve happened.

Maybe that’s why Yuri was acting like he was practically afraid of him—because he didn’t want to return his affections, but he was just too kind to say anything.

Victor racked his mind for _any_ memory of that night.

But there was absolutely nothing.

All he knew was, when he woke up that morning, Yuri was already gone.But for some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d held him close that night, like he could still feel Yuri’s head on his chest, his legs tangled between his.

But that must’ve been a dream.

He pulled the ties of the apron, letting it drop to the floor as he tossed the eggs in the trash.For some reason, he didn’t feel hungry anymore.

Beside him, Makkachin whined.

 

* * *

  


Yuri winced as he sat down, a tremor of pain shooting up his back.

_ Jesus, _ he thought, frowning.

Vlad hadn’t touched him since the incident a few days ago, but he was still sore.Thinking back to the Russian man, Yuri felt a tug of wariness pull at his bones.Ever since he accepted the other’s apology, Vlad had been nothing but the sweetest, most gentlemanly soul.He’d sent flowers and chocolates and took Yuri out on expensive dates and showered him with attention.

That just meant he was really sorry, right?

That he loved Yuri, just like he told him every night?

He shook his thoughts away, frowning and then glanced at the chalkboard.Class was starting in ten minutes and surprisingly, Professor Nikiforov was running late.For a man who arrived ridiculously early to everything, it was a bit out of character for him.

Yuri had sat in the very back of Victor’s classroom.Given the fact that it was just a seminar class, it was a pretty crammed room, but Yuri made it a point to be as far away as possible from his professor.

At least, after his fucking mental breakdown the other night, Yuri had avoided Victor like the plague. _God_ , what did Victor think of him?Yuri had never been so utterly mortified in his life.He never lost control of his emotions like that— _he’d never let another human being see him so vulnerable_.It terrified him how easily he fell into Victor’s arms, how he drank up the sweet words whispered into his ears, how that little burst of hope flared in his chest and tortured him more than any rejection.

But the truth was Victor probably just felt bad for him.Like some kind of pity case.

The little Japanese boy with his broken family and his dying mother and his goddamn emotional outbursts.

Yuri buried his face in his hands, ignoring the clamor of his classmates made as they trickled through the door.

Every time he glanced at Victor, he’d feel a wave of shame and guilt rise within him.He didn’t know why.

And that bothered him more than anything.

Maybe it was because he’d sold his soul to Vlad but he’d given his heart to Victor long ago, when he’d first read his book, when Victor’s words were the only source of light in an impossibly desolate world.

Or maybe it was just because Victor was so _pure_.He always seemed carefree and lackadaisical, like he wasn’t one of the most influential writers of his time, like he didn’t have any problems.

Like life just dealt him the perfect set of cards.

And Yuri was just jealous.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure why he was avoiding Victor.Maybe he was just running away.Yuri always bottled his emotions, contained them until he couldn’t anymore.He wasn’t really in tune with his sentiments anyways—he just didn’t know how to process them.

There were simple feelings that he understood, like sunshine and rain, happiness and sadness.And then there were storms, thunder and lightning of self-worth and hatred that left him shaking in relief when they were over.

And Victor?

Victor was a goddamn hurricane.

An unstoppable force of nature, and Yuri could do nothing but get swept up and tossed before being shattered.

So currently, his only method of coping was _avoiding_.

Not to mention, it was so _awkward_ whenever he saw Victor.The Russian man probably didn’t want to bring up the other night any more than he did.Yuri groaned and practically slammed his forehead against the table, his face heating up at the utter embarrassment of the mere _memory_ of that night.

“Yo, _piggy_ , move over.”

Yuri’s eyes widened at shock, whether at the thick Russian accent, or the blonde teenage rebel standing before him, he couldn’t be sure.

He managed to stutter an apology before scooting his chair over so the other student— _is this kid even old enough to be in college?_ —could pull a chair up.

Quickly scanning the room, Yuri’s brows pulled together in confusion as he realized a very obvious fact.

_ There are tons of empty seats, so why is this kid sitting next to me…? _

“Who are you?”

Yuri blinked in confusion, turning slowly to face the young student.He looked like he could be a freshman in high-school, maybe even junior high.

“I-I’m sorry?”He managed, a perplexed look on his face.Maybe his English wasn’t good?

“I said,” the Russian teen practically growled, “Who are you?How did you coerce Victor into leaving Moscow?”

If Yuri had been confused before, he was downright flabbergasted now.

“ _What?_ C-coerce?”He squeaked, “I didn’t even know Victor was coming—”

The blonde kicked the table, and whirled on Yuri, his turquoise eyes burning with rage, “Don’t _lie_.”

If at that moment, Victor had not walked through the doors, laughing and mumbling some half-assed excuse about traffic, Yuri could very well have been murdered by a livid Russian high-school student.

For the first time that week, Yuri was glad to see his professor.

Although he didn’t look like it, the silver-haired man was extremely perceptive and seemed to pick up on the tension emanating from the back of the room where Yuri and the Russian teenager sat, because he immediately dove into his lecture, leaving students scrambling to grab their notes.

Victor cast the blonde boy a wary glance, like an admonishing parent.If he noticed, the Russian punk didn’t say anything.

Class went by smoothly and when Yuri wasn’t busy avoiding the teen’s glares, he was taking notes diligently.Even if he was avoiding Victor, it didn’t mean that he could just slack off—his GPA had to be top-notch if he wanted to get into medical school.

But when Victor announced that they would be pairing up and doing peer revisions, Yuri would’ve happily taken an F in the class to not be paired up with the Russian punk.

Sadly, it seemed as though Victor could read his mind because that was exactly what happened as he grouped partners together.

The professor had claimed that it was necessary for a seminar class to get close and that editing was just as important as writing.

Yuri could not disagree more.

When he reached Yuri’s desk, he beamed proudly, like he’d just taught Makkachin a new trick, and gestured to the blond punk.Immediately, Yuri felt his heart drop to his stomach.

_ Victor _ _wouldn’t dare._

“Yuri, meet Yuri!You’ll be a pair on this assignment~! Since you both have the same name, Yuri,” he gestured to the teen, “We’ll be calling you Yurio now!”

An indignant screech left Yurio’s throat as he immediately protested, leaping to his feet and releasing a bout of angry Russian at their professor.

Nobody in the class needed to know any Russian to understand the irate blond teen.

However, Victor simply laughed, causing the short student to become even more angry.As if immune to Yurio’s ornery outbursts, Victor waved him off and fluttered away to pair up the other bewildered students.

Realizing his protests were falling on deaf ears, Yurio now whirled on his partner.

“Tch, if you drag me down, you’ll regret it piggy.”

Yuri scratched the nape of his neck and laughed nervously.

 

* * *

  


_ **Two weeks later** _

 

Victor sat in his office, a mug of warm coffee laced between his fingers as he gazed blankly at a paper.His feet were cold; he’d left his slippers in his room.Idly, he wondered if he should call Makkachin—because he was a really good foot-warmer—but then sighed as he realized his dog was probably curled up at the door, waiting for Yuri to come home.

Just like he was.

The past few weeks had passed by in tortured silence, with Yuri avoiding Victor at every chance he got.Every time Victor offered to do an activity together, the Japanese boy would shy away immediately and practically trip over his own feet trying to scramble away.The only time Victor got to talk to the boy was in class, or when he drove him to the hospital.

To make matters worse, it seemed that Hiroko’s condition was not improving.

Although the doctors said it would take some time before she responded to treatment, the pitying gaze in their eyes was enough information for Victor—and especially Yuri.

Victor had resorted to desperate means to convince Yuri to talk to him, even going as far as pairing him with Yurio.He’d hoped that the Russian teen’s angry personality would drive Yuri to ask to switch partners, but to his surprise, the two really got along well.

Yurio had seemed shocked at first, after first reading Yuri’s essay—because it was actually good—but after a while, he began to grudgingly accept the fact that Yuri had talent.He even accepted Yuri’s corrections in his own paper with nothing but a stiff nod.

And Yuri smiled a smile to shame the sun.

In that moment, Victor overcome with jealousy.He wished he could make Yuri smile like that.

Since then, the two became something of a dynamic duo in class, cranking out papers like clockwork, proofreading each other’s work and offering solid advice to one another.Even though Yurio flared up and snapped at the other every now and then, Yuri would laugh and brush off his words and they would continue on, with the Russian teen eventually stuttering out an apology.

And Yuri would always tilt his head curiously and ask what he was apologizing for and Victor would be blown away by the sheer kindness and patience he had.

Maybe that was when he realized how much he adored Yuri.

As the mug grew cooler in his hands, Victor knew he had to win him back.He had to apologize for his feelings and his actions (that he still couldn’t remember) from that drunken night.

It would be awkward, he knew, but he missed his relationship with his student too much to avoid the issue any longer.Even if Yuri rejected his feelings, it didn’t matter.As long as he could talk to Yuri again.

As long as Yuri smiled at him again.

Mind firmly set, he turned his gaze to the clock against his office wall, counting down the minutes until Yuri came home.

 

* * *

  


Vlad’s thick hand wrapped around Yuri’s throat, cutting off all of his oxygen as he thrust deeply into the sobbing boy, groaning with sick satisfaction.

Yuri clabbered at the fingers grasped around his neck, panic filling his mind as his lungs grew increasing desperate for air.Saliva dripped down his open lips as he struggled to breathe, his eyesight growing darker and darker and for a terrifying moment, he wondered if Vlad would rape him if he passed out.

He knew the answer to that better than anyone.

Finally noticing Yuri’s discomfort, Vlad pried his fingers off of the boy’s pale neck, now darkened with the sure signs of bruising.Almost immediately, the brunet gasped, the air burning his throat as he gulped it down, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes.

As if to punish the boy for ending his joy so quickly, Vlad snapped his hips up with enough force to shove Yuri’s face into the mattress.He continued his relentless pace even as Yuri begged for mercy, his pleads nearly drowned out by the nauseating _slap_ of skin against skin.

Choking and resisting the urge to vomit even as bile rose in the back of his throat, Yuri _screamed_.

And Vlad did _not_ like that.

Yuri didn’t even see the blow coming until Vlad backhanded him with enough force to snap his neck to the side and cut his cry off abruptly.

“Yuri,” he smiled, a glint of sadism flashing through his eyes, “Remember who you’re doing this for—your mom, remember?What would she think if you abandoned her now, when she needs money for her hospital bills?”

Tears now flowing freely down his face, Yuri sobbed.

He knew Vlad was right—he’d paid him more than he usually made in a month in just several days.

He needed the money.

His _mom_ needed the money.

A small part of him wondered how Vlad even knew about his mother’s condition, but that thought was quickly brushed aside as Vlad approached him slowly.He brought a calloused hand to Yuri’s cheek and roughly brushed aside his tears.Yuri wished he could stop trembling.

Vlad pressed a gentle kiss against Yuri’s forehead.

“I love you, Yuri.”

The hand on his jaw tightened.

“I love you too,” Yuri whispered, his chocolate gaze turned away.

Vlad smiled.

“Then you’ll let me do what I want, right?”

Yuri felt his heart shattering and for some reason, Victor’s face came to his mind.Victor laughing freely, Victor leaned over his office desk, his brows pulled together in concentration, Victor’s eyes brightening like gems whenever they met his.

But that wasn’t love.

_ This _ was love.

Yuri’s eyes fluttered closed as he responded.

 

“Yes,” he murmured, “Because I love you.”


	10. The Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm deadass posting this with my phone so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes but I figured that y'all should get an update after so freaking long.
> 
> This chapter is also unbetaed because I'm currently in another country and this is the first time I've been able to get wifi. 
> 
> IM SORRH FOR THE LATENESS AND THE SHITTINESS IM SO SORRY I PROMISE I HAVE NOT ABADONED THIS STORY. 
> 
> But basically what happened was finals fucked me up and I failed a course but then I'd already agreed to go abroad on this volunteering trip so here we are! 
> 
> So sorry for the lateness but please enjoy! Hopefully there will be tons more updates once I return home(:

Yuri winced as the door clicked open with a resoundingly loud echo. He held his breath, waiting for Makkachin's bark and the tell-tale tap of his paws, and let out a sigh of relief when the poodle didn't come bounding towards him. Makkachin was most likely asleep already.

Which meant that Victor was probably asleep as well.

He slid past the door and shut it gently. Then, he made a beeline straight for the bathroom. On the way, he passed by Victor's room; there was no light on. A sad smile graced his lips: it seemed like Victor had gotten tired of waiting up for him all these late nights.

After taking a quick shower and wrapping himself in a short bathrobe, Yuri headed to his room. He frowned as he approached; the light was still on. The Japanese student was positive he'd switched it off when he left for Vlad's...appointment.

When he walked through the door, he realized that he hadn't forgotten.

Somebody else had turned the light on.

Yuri froze, caught in a mix of panic and awe.

Silver hair fanned out like a halo on his pillow and even breaths resounded quietly in his room as Victor slumbered on in Yuri's bed.

He must've stood there for an eternity, memorizing the way Victor's chest rose and fell like the push and pull of the tides, the way his mouth parted when he took a breath and the way he slept, curled up on his side, with his arms tightly wrapped around Yuri's pillow.

He didn't think he'd ever be jealous of a pillow before but suddenly he hated it with a savage vengeance.

Yuri was pulled out of his thoughts when a whisper swam across the room, so quiet he thought he was dreaming.

The Japanese student froze, eyes widening in sheer panic as his brain stuttered and he scrambled to think of a good excuse as to why he'd been standing there for a good five minutes just staring at the utter perfection that was Victor in nothing but a thin bathrobe.

The whisper came again, breathed between the sheets and the pillow, like something you'd hear in a dream moments before waking.

" _Yuri_."

Victor's voice was soft, gentle, and Yuri felt his heart pound in relief and something else when he realized that Victor was sleep talking.

Before he knew what he was doing, Yuri crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to Victor. Eyeing his pillow ruefully, he idly wondered for a moment if it would be possible to switch places.

Wet trails ran down his back from his hair and he readjusted his glasses, balanced precariously on the top of his head.

His eyes drifted immediately to Victor's lips, parted invitingly as he continued slumbering, and Yuri wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips, to hear them moan his name.

His ears pinked and he flushed with shame.

Victor deserved more than a whore like him.

But Yuri could dream. He could pretend that they would have a happy ending. He could pretend that his idol might like him, even just a little.

Victor's warmth seeped into his exposed skin and he shivered slightly as he moved to wake the Russian man.

He shook his shoulder gently.

"Victor," he said.

The professor didn't so much as twitch, his breath even as the flat panes of a paperback.

"Victor," he said again, a little louder. And at this, he stirred, pushing himself up sleepily, still holding onto his pillow.

His eyes flickered slowly to him, still hazy from sleep. It reminded Yuri of the first time he saw the ocean. Cloudy and overcast and tense. He could feel the moisture in the air and the quietness of the seagulls and he knew that a storm was coming, even without the darkness that loomed overhead.

"I dreamed about you."

His voice was hoarse, like he'd been stranded on a desert for days.

Yuri didn't know what to say. He never knew what to say.

"Oh." He managed.

Victor sighed and leaned his head against his shoulder, tickling the other male with his hair.

"I miss you."

Quiet, so quiet. Victor was never quiet. For a brief moment, Yuri wondered if _he_ was actually the one asleep.

And then Victor discarded the pillow and wrapped his arms around Yuri's torso and Yuri forgot how to breathe.

"I miss you," he said again, even quieter this time, like he could pretend he had said something else and laugh it off in case Yuri rejected him and Yuri would believe him because he was so quiet.

Victor buried his nose into the wet of Yuri's hair and pulled the Japanese boy fully onto his lap.

Yuri said nothing and waited. His heart thundered furiously, throwing itself at the confines of his chest and he wondered if Victor could feel it.

Victor's arms tightened around him.

"Please talk to me." His voice was hoarse again and Yuri knew he didn't mean speaking.

Victor wanted to know why Yuri came home late every night, why he hid himself under turtlenecks, why he flinched at every loud noise, why he avoided Victor like the plague.

And he wanted to tell him. He wanted to bear his soul and open his chest until Victor could count the number of ribs that caged his lungs, the beats of his pounding heart.

"I..." His voice trailed off uncertainly, like a paper ship sliding across the smooth surface of a lake before sinking.

At last, he whispered back, "I can't."

Victor threaded his hands into Yuri's towel and sighed.

"Okay," he said simply.

And Yuri could feel the thousands of burning questions on the tip of his tongue but he held them back.

A bruising weight fell on his heart then, constricting it so much Yuri wondered how he was still breathing.  He wanted to tell him so badly, but he couldn't. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Victor broke the silence.

"What...what happened that night?"

Yuri knew perfectly well what day it was and he was glad he wasn't facing Victor because the obvious flush of his cheeks would've given him away.

"What night?" He hoped his voice was even.

But Victor could tell from the way his back stiffened and Yuri could feel his frown against the nape of his neck and he shivered. The Russian man barreled past Yuri's pathetic attempt at ignorance.

"I don't remember a thing," Victor confessed, burrowing his nose into Yuri's hair and mumbling so quietly it took Yuri a few moments to piece together his words.

He stiffened, his mouth parting slightly at his realization. Victor took it to be negative and drew his arms loser around Yuri, as though he thought the Japanese student would spring out of his grip at any moment.

"Did I hurt you?" The question came out in a cracked whisper and Yuri immediately spun around, forgetting that he was in nothing but a robe and wrapped his legs around either side of Victor's slim hips.

"No," he breathed, his hand resting by Victor's face as he drowned in endless blue and he wished with every fiber of his being that he could pull the guilt out of those eyes.

"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice was firm and he wiled Victor to believe him.

Victor's brows pulled together in confusion.

"Then why have you been avoiding me?"

It was as though Victor's voice was a knife and with each word he spoke the blade was twisted deeper and deeper into Yuri's soul until he could no longer breathe.

Yuri faltered then, sinking backwards against Victor's thighs. His mind screamed at him to lie but for some reason, he knew that Victor would be able to see right past it.

"I don't know," he said and that was the closest thing to the truth he could manage.

Victor opened his mouth, as though he was going to argue, but then stopped himself. "Okay," he said and drifted his head down against Yuri's chest, against his heart.

Suddenly hyper aware of his unclothed state, like he'd just eaten from the Tree of Good and Evil, Yuri stiffened uncomfortably and prayed that his bathrobe, now riding precariously up his thighs, would stay wrapped.

Victor's fingers burned into his back as they traced tattoos against his skin.

"Shh," he whispered, his head still against Yuri's chest, hearing the steady bray of his heart, "Indulge me, please--just for a moment."

And Yuri did, resting against Victor until his breaths grew even and his eyes grew hazy.

Even though they didn't come to any conclusion, they were okay now. There was a silent, unspoken agreement.

Yuri could have Victor back.  

* * *

 

**Three weeks later**

 

"You could just marry him, you know."

Yurio's voice was nonchalant as he finished writing the equation down in his notebook. He frowned, pursing his lips as he stared at it.

Yuri felt his cheeks burning.

"W-what?" He stuttered, differential equations all but forgotten as he processed the blond's words.

Yurio paused from his work, cocking a brow at him and starting at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world.

Even though Yuri was the one who'd graciously agreed to help the Russian teen with calculus because as good as Yurio was at writing, he was hopelessly lost when it came to math.

The poor boy couldn't even factor.

"You both already act like a nasty married couple," he said, crossing his arms as flashbacks of the two assailed his memory, "Why not just marry him already?"

Yuri blinked at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

While it was true that after The Night of the Short Bathrobe a couple weeks ago, Victor and Yuri fell comfortably back into their old ways, laughing and joking with each other, Yuri couldn't see himself with Victor. Victor deserved somebody beautiful. Somebody famous and rich and successful, just like him. Somebody that wasn't as corrupted as him.

"I don't think so," he said flatly, his chest constructing with the hope that Victor might like him too.

His mind flashed to Vlad briefly. The older Russian man hadn't contacted him in over a week and while he felt like he should miss him, Yuri found that he was glad. Every time he checked his phone and there was no message from Vlad, a trill of relief ran through him.

Which was strange. Because he was supposed to love Vlad.

And you miss the people you love.

But his mom's bills were still being paid so Vlad was keeping his end of the bargain. He'd visited her last week and though she'd seemed weak, she had been more talkative than his previous visits and that made him happier than anything.

"Tch," Yurio huffed, glaring at the math problem with a vengeance, "You both are idiots." Yuri laughed, shaking his head. He was right--they were idiots.

A buzzing noise halted their study session and Yuri absentmindedly pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was probably Victor, asking if Yurio would be joining them for dinner again and to pick up some treats for Makkachin or something.

He answered it without looking.

"Hello?"

A shiver ran through him and froze his blood as Vlad's voice responded. "Yuri," he purred, "What are you doing tonight?"


	11. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK IN MERICA (though with the way things are going, im not sure if that's a good thing)  
> major angst warning ahead!! im so sorry...
> 
> ALSO: please go back and read chapter 3 because it's gonna be important for the plot (i deadass had to go re-read it because i forgot where i was going with this rip)
> 
> feel free to hit me up on tumblr @hitherelovely with rants, predictions, or just to chat! i love talking with all of you(:

It was a lull, Victor decided. A breath before the rain.  Before the water came and poured and drowned out everything until you couldn't breathe anymore and you wished you'd taken a deeper breath beforehand.

If only you'd known.

_If only he'd known._

He would've confessed.  He would've spilled his soul to Yuri and kissed him over and over again in the rain.

But storms always have a way of coming without notice.

 

* * *

 

"Mmm...Victor, you're heavy."

Despite his words, Yuri's voice held no hint of complaint.  Instead, he smiled shyly, peeking up from the pillow that Victor had pressed currently to his head.

"But Yuri," the Russian man whined, shifting closer to the boy, "You're comfy."  He wrapped his leg around Yuri's torso completely and the raven haired boy laughed.  The vibration filtered through Victor's chest, like the same buzz he got from vodka, but headier somehow.

 _Like a drug_ , he thought, glancing up at the dark-haired boy. _Yuri was a drug._

And he couldn't get enough of him.

Victor didn't know what they were. Definitely more than teacher-student, maybe a little more than friends.

They were in the gray area of in-between.  A transition. 

But to what? That, he didn't know quite yet.

Victor didn’t even know how he felt towards the Japanese student.  He’d always been bad at figuring out his emotions, and he’d avoided relationships entirely for the past two years.

But Yuri, _god Yuri_ , he just…stormed past all his defenses until Victor’s every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of him.  The way his breath hitched before he was about to laugh, the gentle look that passed over his eyes every time he pet Makkachin, the furrow of his brow as he concentrated on editing a piece of writing. 

Every time he saw Yuri, Victor just wanted to commit him to memory. 

A loud phone call suddenly interrupted their peace.  Yuri jumped up, like he'd been shocked, and reached immediately for his cell phone.  He clambered off of Victor in seconds and was halfway down the hall before he answered.

The professor frowned, slightly hurt but brushing it aside.  Yuri had been on edge recently.  Every time the phone rang, he would sprint away from him before he would dare pick up.  It made him wonder: _did Yuri already have somebody else?_   The thought hurt more than any rejection and it kept him awake more often than not.   

But despite his burning curiosity, Victor respected Yuri’s privacy more than his need to know.  He wouldn't push the shy boy.  Yuri would talk to him when he was ready.

At least that's what he kept telling himself.

"Hello?"

Yuri's voice was soft as he answered the call, glancing around to make sure Victor hadn’t followed him before stepping into the safety of his room and locking the door.

"Yuri," Vlad's voice purred over the line, all smoke and velvet that sent a pool of heat straight to his stomach, "You can still make our appointment tonight, yes?"

The student fought the urge to shudder at the implications in the Russian man's voice.  His fingers clenched around the phone.

"Of course," he replied, making sure to his tone carefully light, "The usual time?"

Vlad clicked his tongue in response.

"I'll come by the school to pick you up," his voice paused for a moment, "And Yuri? Wear something nice."

And then the line went dead.

Yuri went slack against the door, like an unwound string, shutting his eyes tight as his head hit the frame behind him.  He didn’t even realize his hands were trembling until his phone dropped to the floor with a dull clatter.  Swallowing a curse, he bent down to pick it up, mentally berating his shaking hands. 

He took several deep breaths, pulling himself back together before going out there and seeing Victor.  But despite his best efforts, Victor could always tell when there was anything, _anything_ off about him.  He could practically _see_ the concerned crease of his professor’s brow now. 

Yuri stared at his phone, at the nameless contact that belonged to his client. 

Vlad had been strangely...well-behaved lately.  Docile, even.  But that's what made Yuri nervous.  The fear, the apprehension—that was what shook him awake at night.

The beatings, he could handle. Yuri liked predictability—he could care less about the abuse.  The fits of rage, the soreness as he pounded into his body without regard, that was normal.

But the suspense?  The mood swings? It left him shuddering.

Sometimes Vlad would be the sweetest, the gentlest person Yuri had ever known, and he'd think, _this is a person I could really love_.  He would be so careful with Yuri, whisper the most beautiful words he'd ever heard, kiss passionate trails up his neck as he made love to him gently. 

But the Russian man's mood could also switch at the drop of a pin, and he'd snap, and leave bruises and marks all over Yuri's body.  He’d backhand Yuri without a warning.  He’d laugh when he cried. 

Yuri didn't know which Vlad he would be meeting tonight.

He just hoped he would be in a good mood.

A knock on his door pulled him out of his reverie.  But before he could open the door, Victor spoke.

"Yuri," Victor's voice sounded urgent, scared even, "The hospital just called. It's your mom."

 

* * *

 

The car ride to the hospital was tense.  Victor kept one hand on the steering wheel but reached for Yuri with the other.  The Japanese boy didn’t object when he laced their fingers together. 

Victor doesn’t say a word, merely brushes his thumb in soothing circles over Yuri’s cold hand. 

He only lets go when they arrive at their destination.

Yuri still hasn’t said a word, following mutely as Victor leads them to the cancer wing. 

He wants to hold him when the doctors tell them the news.

Yuri simply nods as Doctor Something-or-another rattles off his mother’s conditions like he’s reading from a dictionary. 

The words blur together and unravel in Yuri’s mind, until they have no meaning, repeating in an endless loop that leaves his mouth dry and his throat tight. 

_Stage three…surgery is doubtful…hopeless…prepare the family…settle your finances_

Victor processes the words so Yuri doesn’t have to, answers the doctor’s questions as desert eyes glaze over and Yuri becomes as still as the air around them.  He reaches for the student’s hand again, but his grip is tighter than before.  Keeping Yuri from breaking apart, keeping him together just as he winds their fingers together.  

And when Yuri finally sees his mom in the hospital bed, he walks on unsteady feet towards her, not realizing the tears building at the corner of his eyes or the sob that leaves his throat when she smiles at him with a look that he doesn’t dare believe.

Acceptance.

She was accepting her fate.

She was going to leave him.  All alone, just like his dad had.

“ _Yuri…”_ her voice breaks and so does he. 

Victor closes the door quietly and steps outside, breath catching in his throat as he hears Yuri’s muffled sobs and Hiroko’s quiet, soothing voice. 

He leans his head back against the door, silver hair falling on his face, shielding his eyes.  His heart aches in a way that he’s unfamiliar with as he tries to block out Yuri’s trembling sobs. 

As he drowns in his own helplessness, Victor wonders for a second if leaving Moscow was the right thing to do, before abruptly banishing his selfish thoughts.  He clenches his fists at his side—how could he _think_ such a thing right now? 

More than ever, Yuri needed somebody.  Even if he didn’t deserve to be at his side, Victor would be there for him, until Yuri didn’t want him there anymore. 

Hiroko’s case wasn’t hopeless—he refused to believe the cold words that left the doctor’s mouth. 

He wasn’t going to give up on her. 

He wasn’t going to give up on _Yuri_. 

Pulling out his phone, Victor dialed a familiar number.  It picked up on the third ring.

“ _You’ve finally decided to show your face again?_ ”  The voice on the other side is harsh, but Victor can still pick up the hint of worry behind the façade. 

He gets straight to the point. 

“I need your help.”

 

* * *

 

Yuri fingers the envelope.  It’s worn, yellowed around the edges, but he’d recognize the slanted writing on the front anywhere. 

There’s one word scribbled on it: _Yuri_. 

In his dad’s familiar scrawl. 

He debates reading it, his finger twitches the longer he stares at the letter.  The urge to tear it open is overwhelming, but Yuri knows he can’t.  Because when he does, he’ll be accepting his mother’s fate and the doctor’s lies. 

So he leaves it unopened, placed on the top of his desk carelessly—his father’s last words to him.

The message his mother kept, until he was old enough.

Until she was dying. 

He walks out of his room, dressed in his ratty old tie and his white button-up.  He considers bringing an umbrella, because the skies look like they might split open any minute, but decides against it.  Maybe he wants to drown, to feel the rain on his skin, to feel _something_.    

The Japanese boy walks to the front of the apartment, before pausing, noticing the light on in the study. 

"I'm leaving for work now," Yuri calls softly, his voice hoarse.   Victor starts, dropping his pen—Yuri had been in his room for hours now, he didn’t expect him to leave. 

But before he can respond, the door slams shut.  He puts his book down and smiles sadly.

"Be safe," he says to an empty room.

The words are whispered like a prayer.  Victor's never been a religious man but tonight he swears to worship whatever god out there that keeps Yuri safe. 

A heavy sense of dread fills Victor until he's choking on it.  He doesn't know why.  It's as though something is pulling at him, pushing him to run after Yuri, to keep him home.

But he doesn't.  He stays inside and reads the same page for the seventh time in a row and tells himself that he's just being stupid.

Outside, the sky rumbles.

And then it pours.

 

* * *

 

" _Victor_."

He knows he's dreaming.  He's positive he's dreaming.  Because there's no other way he'd hear that treacherous voice otherwise.

" _Victor, come here_."

And Victor doesn't want to.  He wants to run away.

But he can't.

Because this is a dream. 

" _Come here, love_."

 He hates that nickname, that endearment that was as much a lie as the whispered confessions he was told, night after night.  

Vlad's smile stretches across his face like a snake swallowing its prey whole.  Victor wonders how long it’s been since he’s seen the cold monster before him.  The panes of his handsome face are achingly familiar and he shudders despite himself. 

Not long enough, he decides. 

And even though he doesn't want to, Victor finds himself walking over to reach his outstretched hand.  Vlad's fingers are cold; they were always cold and Victor grinds his teeth as those same hands wind up his face, through his hair, before resting at his collar bone, tracing at bruises that should’ve vanished a long time ago.   

" _Good boy, Victor_ ," the serpent purrs and digs its fingers into his throat and he swears he can feel the little drops of venom dripping down his neck.  Victor wants to wake up already. 

But he can't. 

Because this is a nightmare.

 

* * *

 

Victor wakes up at his desk to a crash that reverberates throughout the entire apartment and Makkachin’s terrified bark that follows.  Idly, he wonders if Yuri tripped over something or somebody is breaking in.  He decides that they’re doing a shit job as he stands up and makes his way carefully to the door.   

And there, he loses his damn mind. 

Because Yuri’s there, curled up on the ground, whimpering in pain and whispering Victor’s name over and over. 


	12. Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOO HERE'S THE NEXT UPDATE  
> WHOOO THINGS ARE GETTING FIRED UP NOW!!!  
> so sorry it took so long, summer school's been bleh. don't fail kiddies, or you'll have to take summer classes and BOY do they blow.
> 
> lots of angst ahead~~  
> prepare yourselves(:

For a heartbeat, everything is still.  It’d be almost quiet, were it not for the blood pounding in his ears, ricocheting through the empty house. 

Then, Victor moves, and he’s not sure how, scooping up Yuri and carrying him to his room.  He’s cradling the smaller male, shushing him soothingly and running his hands through inky hair, sticky with rain and tears. 

Victor pulls Yuri to his chest and rocks him on the bed, pressing gentle kisses to the top of his head.  He’d forgotten to turn the light on, but his sharp azure eyes can still make out the strings of bruises around Yuri’s wrists, his collarbone, his jaw. 

He didn’t need to look to know there would be the same dark marks along Yuri’s ankles, the inside of his thighs. 

For a moment, Victor sees red.

For a moment, it’s not Yuri with those bruises and stains—but a fourteen-year-old Russian boy with eyes the color of the sky.

For a moment, Victor lets the past come back, threatening to overwhelm him, before he breathes, his grip tightening around the Japanese student.

Yuri’s voice drags him back to reality. 

“V-Victor…”

It’s hardly more than a breath, but Victor starts, pressing soothing kisses against his head, his hands. 

“Yuri,” he says, dragging his thumb across his cheeks, “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t ask what happened.  He isn’t sure if he should. 

Yuri nods shakily.  “I…I don’t—”

He cuts himself off with a shudder and Victor’s there, cradling him closer and running a comforting hand down his back.

“It’s okay, Yuri.  You don’t have to explain anything.” 

He’s surprised at how calm his words are because he can barely keep the rage from flooding his mind.  Victor has never been a violent person, not by any stretch of the means.  If anything, the professor was a bit of a pacifist.  But right now, he could _kill_. 

At his soft words, Yuri trembles, his chocolate eyes growing wet with tears.  He sniffs, buries himself in Victor’s shoulder, chewing on his bottom lip.  Soft sobs shudder through his body, and Victor hugs him tight, whispering soothing words and kisses against his head. 

Victor’s not sure how long they stay like that, clinging to each other like lifelines, but eventually, he feels Yuri relax against his chest, his breath falling into an even pattern. 

* * *

 

Victor’s always thought that it’s strange how you can remember things in dreams that you can’t recall when you’re awake. 

For example, his mother’s face.  He’s forgotten what she looks like, needs pictures to remind himself throughout the day, but when he falls asleep, he can see her clear as day. 

And right now, she’s frowning at him. 

“Vitya,” she chides, pulling her eight-year-old son into her lap.  He giggles when her long silver hair brushes over his eyes and he sits up, facing her.  His laughter momentarily distracts her and she smiles lovingly at him before she remembers. 

“Promise me you’ll behave for Uncle Vlad when we’re away this weekend.”

She tries to sound stern but her voice is too lilting and lovely.  Nonetheless, Victor whines and fidgets in her lap. 

 “I don’t _like_ Uncle Vlad,” he puffs, crossing his arms. 

Even though he can’t see her, Victor can practically _feel_ her roll her eyes at his impudence.  She sighs and picks him up, shifting him around so he’s facing her.  Leaning down, she stares into his eyes. 

His mother has beautiful brown eyes that soften when she takes in Victor’s moping face. 

“Vitya,” she says, thumbing his chin up so he meets her gaze, “We’ll only be gone for a few days.  Promise me you’ll be good for your uncle.”

He bits his lip and mutters, “He’s not even my real uncle…”

But he knows she’s won and she knows it too.   

She holds out her pinky and Victor reluctantly takes it.  She plants a kiss on his cheek.  It’s wet and it makes him squirm and giggle. 

“I love you,” she whispers. 

Despite himself, a shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“I love you too, Mama.”

A few days later, when the Nikiforovs were driving back from St. Petersburg, they were struck and killed by a drunk driver.  Victor Nikiforov was given custody to his only surviving relative: his grandmother.  When he was twelve, his grandmother passed away tragically from a heart attack. 

Vladimir Humbert, a close friend of the family, became the official guardian of Victor Nikiforov.

* * *

 

Yuri wakes up with a jolt and a sinking feeling in his stomach.  He can feel the bile rising in the back of his throat.  He vaguely recognizes his surroundings—it’s his room at Victor’s—but before he can wonder how he got there, he’s bolting for the bathroom. 

He barely makes it to the toilet before he vomits everything he’s eaten that day. 

Hurling against the porcelain, he hardly notices the soothing fingers running through his hair or the soft voice murmuring reassurances as he violently retches.  He dry-heaves until nothing else comes up, and slumps backwards, exhausted.  Victor says something soothing to him, but he can’t make out the words and instead leans on the wall, his feet braced against the toilet.  Idly, he notices Victor walking away, but he isn’t sure why. 

Yuri feels his eyes closing, his lids too heavy to hold up.  A few moments later, Victor returns and a cold glass of water is pressed to his lips.  He whines, pushing the glass away, but Victor is insistent.  At last, he takes a few sips until the Russian man is satisfied.  Then he leans back against the wall, slipping back on the brink of sleep.  A warm wet cloth brushes at his face, his cheeks, and his hands and it makes him shudder. 

By the time Victor has cleaned Yuri and scooped him up, he’s already asleep, breaths even and relaxed.  He carries him back to bed and tucks him in before settling next to him. 

The second time Yuri wakes up, he’s alone in his bed.  Sunlight filters through the curtains and his head throbs painfully.  He isn’t sure why—he didn’t even drink last night.  His memory is spotty at best, and he furrows his brows trying to remember. 

There’s bits and pieces, filtering back to him in little chunks. 

He remembers going to a nice restaurant with Vlad; he’d ordered spaghetti and only drank water.  Vlad had been charming and fun—he made Yuri laugh so hard he nearly choked on his food. 

Then he remembered getting into Vlad’s car, and it was then that everything became spotty.  Somehow, they ended up in Vlad’s apartment and he didn’t feel good at all.  He told Vlad repeatedly to take him home, that it was probably a case of food poisoning, but Vlad kept brushing it off and trying to kiss him. Yuri kept pushing him away, telling him that he was going to be sick.

And then Vlad had gotten angry.

Really, really angry.

Yuri had never been more terrified in his life. 

He backhanded Yuri so hard his neck snapped to the side and threw him on the bed.  Then he’d gone into the bathroom and commanded Yuri to get undressed. 

That was when he’d bolted.

He wasn’t sure how he got away from Vlad, his head was spinning and his body felt sluggish and his limbs wouldn’t obey, but he managed to get out of his apartment and hail a cab.  The next thing he knew, he was at Victor’s.

_Oh fuck—Victor._

How was he going to explain everything?  Victor wasn’t stupid—he could obviously tell that something was wrong.  Yuri sat on the side of the bed, racking his brain for any excuse at all.  He was so concentrated on coming up with a plan that he almost didn’t notice the door opening. 

“Yuri?”

Victor looked concerned and walked in carrying a sandwich and a water.  He sat down next to Yuri on the bed and gestured for him to eat. 

Yuri practically flinched, his eyes going wide with panic. 

“Victor, I-I…”

The professor held up his hand to silence him. 

“Yuri,” he said quietly, “Please eat while I talk for a moment.”

Heart thudding in his chest, Yuri nodded obediently before picking up the sandwich and taking a bite.  What did Victor know?  Would he make him leave? 

Victor waited until Yuri had swallowed his bite before speaking.

“I know you’ve been meeting with Vlad.”

His voice was blunt and cold.  Yuri started, opening his mouth to throw out any, every excuse he had but Victor’s hardened gaze cut him off.

“I don’t know what he’s promised you,” he continued, “But he’s a liar, Yuri.  You need to stop this…this—whatever you have with him.”

Yuri wanted to scream that he couldn’t.  That being with Vlad, being his slut, paid for his schooling and most importantly, _it kept his mom alive_. 

And for that, he’d take any beating Vlad could give him. 

“Vladimir is the scum of the earth, Yuri.  Do you know _why_ you were puking your brains out last night?”  The last part came out in hiss, “Because he fucking poisoned you.”

Instead of feeling scared or shocked, Yuri felt anger rising in him, because Victor didn’t understand.  Did he _like_ selling his body for money?  Did he _like_ being a toy for a fucked-up bastard like Vlad?  For his entire life, Victor was fed with a silver spoon while Yuri had _nothing_.

“What do you know?”  He spat out before he could stop himself, clutching the blanket underneath him.  Immediately, he regretted his words, when he saw the hurt that ran through Victor’s eyes.  Then, the icy blue pools hardened like frozen ice. 

“I know that he’s hurting you and manipulating you.”

Victor’s words resounded deep within him.  Still, he was too fired up, too angry at his circumstance to simply accept the truth.  He gritted his teeth, balling his fists into the blanket. 

“Leave,” he said simply, keeping his gaze low, “Please.”

Victor paused, like he was going to argue, but then slowly stood up. 

“Finish your food and drink the water,” he said quietly before sliding off the bed and walking out the door. 

Yuri was half tempted to fling the plate at his head.  Because really, what _did_ Victor know about suffering?  He was a genius, a Nobel Laurate—his life had been practically set up from the start.  His parents had to be so proud.  Victor was charming, attractive, smart; he didn’t have any room to judge Yuri. 

And then a wave of shame rolled against the Japanese student. 

Victor probably thought Yuri was a pity case.  He was doing the “honorable thing” by housing him for free. 

Maybe Victor Nikiforov wasn’t the idol he thought he was. 

Yuri climbed out of bed, his half-eaten sandwich set aside.  Then, he reached for his duffle bag and started packing his things. 

He didn’t need to check his phone to know that it would be filled with missed calls and pleading, sorrowful texts from Vlad.  After he stuffed as many clothes and belongings as he could into his bag, he sent Vlad a brief text.

_Can I stay with you for a few days?_

The reply was immediate.  Yuri barely remembered to snatch his dad’s letter off the top of his desk before shouldering his bag and leaving the room.    

* * *

 

By the time Victor got home, it was well into the evening—he’d wanted to give Yuri time to process and collect his thoughts.  He’d bought takeout from Yuri’s favorite Chinese place, as a peace offering of sorts.  Balancing the bag of lo mein in his arms, Victor fished out his keys and swung open the apartment door.

To his surprise, it was dark.  There were no lights on anywhere and Makkachin whimpered nervously as he scampered to greet his master. 

 _Strange_ , he thought, his brows furrowing in confusion.  Yuri knew Makkachin hated the dark.  Even if he stayed in his room the entire day, he would’ve at least flicked some lights on for the poodle. 

For some reason, his heart was sinking into the pit of his stomach and he didn’t know why. 

“Yuri?” He called.

There was no reply.

Then, he walked into the kitchen and saw a note written in Yuri’s familiar script.  He expected relief, because Yuri must’ve had some valid reason for not being home. 

Instead, the note left him speechless.

_I’ve left.  Don’t look for me._

_Thank you for everything, Victor._

_-Y._

And in the dead silence of his empty apartment, Victor could hear his heart shattering. 

 

 

 


	13. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor doesn't know how to breathe in a world with no air.

**Two Weeks Later:**

The first this Chris notices is the quiet. He bangs at the door again, louder this time, but all that meets him is silence. There's no Makkachin, barking and bounding to greet him. There's no silver-haired Russian, bleary-eyed and smiling and complaining about how it's too damn early for him to be pounding at his doorstep. Worry gnaws at his stomach, and he tries the door.

To his surprise, it swings wide open. 

 _Fuck_ , he thinks.  Mentally, he prepares himself for the worst.  In his mind, a thousand images flash through: the corpse of his best friend on the ground, a trashed apartment, the blaring of police sirens. 

Instead, there is just silence.

And that unnerves Chris more than anything.

"Victor!" He calls, walking into the familiar home.

There's nothing, nobody.  Even the creak of his steps against the hardwood floor has adrenaline and fear racing though his veins.  Inwardly, Chris berates himself for not checking in earlier.  Every text he sent, every call he made, stemmed no response from his best friend.

He heads for Victor's room, but the door is ajar—empty.  It’s like a ghost town. 

Chris is about to call the cops when he hears the breaking of glass, shattering the hollow quiet of the apartment.

Immediately, he turns on his heels, dashing after the sound.  To his surprise, it leads him to Yuri's room.  He throws the door open. 

" _Victor_ ," he gasps, unable to keep the shock out of his voice, "Oh God, Victor—what...what the fuck happened?" 

The silver-haired man, crumpled against Yuri's bed, doesn't respond.  Chris hardly recognizes the man with the sunken-in cheeks, the narrow collar bones jutting out of his skin, like he hasn’t eaten in days.  Victor turns over, nearly toppling off the mattress as he tries to pick up the shattered whiskey bottle from the floor.

Christophe moves to stop him, but Victor clenches the remains of the bottle, clumsily trying to scoop them up. The glass cuts his fingers and the palm of his hand, but he doesn't flinch.  Doesn't react.

Chris slaps his hand and the shards scatter to the ground. 

"Victor!" He snaps, grabbing the front of his best friend's collar and pulling him up.  His shoes snag on the glass and he crushes them underfoot. "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

It takes the Russian a few moments to react, his eyes dazed and struggling to focus. Chris can smell the unholy amount of alcohol that's seeped into Victor's skin, and the scent makes his stomach turn.  It reminds him of heartache and missing memories and hollow emptiness. 

It reminds him of hurt. 

Inwardly, he wonders what happened to push Victor over the edge like this.  There's a sinking feeling in his chest that it has something to do with why Victor was buried in Yuri's bed with bottles littered around him. 

At last, Victor responds.

"'m fine..." he mumbles, his words as slurred as his mind, "Let...go, Chris."

He doesn't respond for a few moments.  It doesn’t take long for Christophe to put the pieces together.

"He left, didn't he?"  His voice is no more than a murmur but Victor recoils like he’s been stung.  A flash of something like contempt flickers through the Russian’s eyes as he grapples against Chris’s hold. 

"I said _let go_." 

The second Chris releases his grip, Victor staggers forward, nearly topping off the bed. He catches himself and manages to sit up.  The Swiss man stands watching his best friend, a storm of emotions clouding his face as he struggles with what to do.  A couple tense minutes pass by, as both refuse to say a word, waiting for the other to break the silence. 

Finally, Victor speaks, and his voice is so hollow, so broken, Chris wonders if that shattered part of him can ever be repaired again. 

"It's Vlad. Yuri chose Vlad." 

* * *

 

The first couple of days was fine.  At least that's what Victor told himself. 

He was sure Yuri just needed a little bit of time away; he'd be back. 

But then Yuri stopped coming to class.  He didn't show up once and Victor was pretty sure he wasn't going to his other classes either.  Even more alarming, Yurio didn't know where he was either, and was prone to snapping whenever the other Yuri was brought up. 

He didn't blame him.  He was just as worried as Victor. 

Then, almost at his wit’s end, Victor called Hiroko at the hospital.

She was clipped and cold and Victor wondered what happened to the kind woman who laughed at his embarrassing jokes. 

“Professor Nikiforov,” she’d said, addressing him by his proper title like they were strangers, “Yuri’s okay.  No need to worry.” 

And then she’d promptly hung up the phone. 

That was when the drinking began. 

He was _fine_ , at least, until the drinking never stopped. 

However, despite how much Victor drank himself into delirium, so that he could no longer hear Yuri’s laugh in his ears, or miss his smile, or even say his name, Victor always showed up to class. 

 _Because_ , he thought, _what if Yuri shows up today?_

And he kept waiting and waiting, his finger twitching over his attendance sheet, but that day never came.  Before he knew it, two whole weeks had passed with no word from Yuri. 

And he was losing his _goddamn mind_.

Because who can breathe in a world without air?  Who can sleep in a world without dreams? 

How could he wake up, drag himself out of bed, when all the bright places had suddenly vanished—when the stars fell and crashed and died, how could he look up at the heavens?

It didn’t take long before the rumors started.  His lectures became more and more dysfunctional with each day that Yuri was gone and he himself became more volatile.  It was hard, going to class each day, telling himself that he didn’t _care_ , and despite his lies to himself, he could still feel that burst of yearning underneath his chest.  That little songbird ruffling its feathers between his ribs, singing its little melody of hope. 

He wanted to snap its neck. 

Because every time that he searched for warm brown eyes in his classroom, he was met back by faces of confusion and concern and disgust.  It didn’t surprise him, and he certainly didn’t blame his students.  They were supposed to be taught by _the_ Victor Nikiforov.  The youngest Nobel Laureate.  The New York Times Bestselling author. 

Not some alcoholic who stumbled in the classroom like he stumbled over his words. 

Talk spread fast and before he knew it, the Director of Undergraduate Studies called him in for a meeting.  

Victor wasn’t surprised and again, he didn’t care.  He hadn’t felt anything for quite some time now.  It was like when Yuri left, he stole all the passion, all the love and life out of Victor’s very soul. 

Before, he would’ve been terrified to face the Director.  Now, he just felt numb, like he did every day. 

Lilia was a stern-faced woman and her reputation was as calloused as her heart.  When he knocked on her door, she called for him to come in immediately. 

The professor hoped he didn’t smell like vodka.  He’d brushed his teeth and showered and even managed to string on a tie, but it felt like the stench of alcohol been had burned into his body. 

“Lilia,” he greets, offering her a hollow smile.  He extends his hand and his eyes are so cold, like they were trapped against the expanse of sky in Siberia, that Lilia almost starts in surprise.  She’s taken aback, though her face doesn’t show it, and she gestures for him to sit down.  Victor moves robotically, shifting and moving like an android.  The Director notes his sallow face and the shadows underneath his eyes and she doesn’t recognize this man. 

Because this isn’t the professor she hired.

This isn’t the writer who spun magic in his words.

This isn’t the laughing man with the smile as warm as his gaze.

 _This isn’t Victor Nikiforov_.

“Professor,” she begins, clearing her throat and lacing her fingers together on top of her desk, “I’ve been hearing some troubling news about your class.”  She’s unable to meet his gaze, because there’s something disturbing about the empty way his eyes blink with complete vacancy. 

Lilia has always been a smart and capable and frightening woman, but right now, she felt almost a sense of unease prickling in the back of her spine. 

She never thought that Victor Nikiforov would ever be the reason.

“Oh?” he replies, his tone light and airy, “What kind of troubling news?”

“Victor,” she cuts straight to the point, “You’re showing up to class drunk.  You haven’t taught a proper lecture in weeks and you haven’t graded anything, either.  You need to—”

Finally, she looks up at his gaze and her breath catches in her throat. 

Because he isn’t staring at her—he’s staring _through_ her. 

It takes a moment for her to recompose herself, because no living, breathing human should have that void in their eyes. 

She crosses her arms and begins again.

“Listen, Professor,” she says, and though he nods, Lilia wonders where exactly Victor is right now, “You’re good at your job.  I don’t want to let you go over something like this.  If you need some time off, we can accommodate that.”

Victor smiles vacantly and she’s reminded of a broken doll.  He opens his mouth to respond, but his question has no correlation to their conversation whatsoever. 

“Director, have…have you heard of a student—he’s very bright—named Yuri Katsuki?  He’s in my class but he has not shown up for a while now.”

Maybe it was just her imagination, but Lilia could’ve swore that Victor choked out that student’s name.  She paused for a moment, thinking, rolling the syllables of the familiar name over her tongue.

Why did Yuri Katsuki sound so familiar?  She sees thousands of student names every day, but for some reason, this one stuck. 

She riffles through some files on her desk for a moment before the realization clicks into place. 

For a student to withdraw from the university, they need permission from the Dean of their major _and_ the Director of Undergraduate Studies.  She remembered signing his release forms and thinking, _what a shame_ , and _such a waste of talent_. 

“Yuri Katsuki withdrew from the university a few days ago,” she says slowly, “The email to all his professors was going to be sent out tomorrow.” 

Victor doesn’t respond and Lilia looks up.

The first thing she thinks is: _there’s a dead man in front of me._

Because whereas his eyes had been hollow before, now they were just lifeless.  Like someone had taken everything that was Victor out of his body and left some kind of vacant shell of a human behind. 

Lilia wonders what kind of student Yuri Katsuki must’ve been. 

The silver-haired Russian man simply nods and stands up.  He says something about taking her up on her offer of spending some time off and shakes her hand and walks out of her office like some kind of zombie. 

Lilia can already hear the _clink_ of the vodka bottle he’s going to drown himself in. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeeeeyyyy theereeee frriieenndss...  
> I know.  
> It's been four months.  
> I know apologizing is pretty much worthless at this point, but my dear readers, I AM SO SORRY!!   
> AHHH LIFE JUST GOT IN THE WAY AND I PROMISE I HAVE NOT ABANDONED THIS WORK.  
> college is just really really rough???  
> anyways, this semester is ending in a few weeks and I will update more and faster!!  
> I'm also sorry this chapter is ah, so short and shitty and bad. I just needed to get something out before I lost all motivation.
> 
> also~ if you want to talk to me (or rant and scream at me), hit me up on my tumblr, @hitherelovely.  
> i really want to get to know everyone!


	14. The thing with feathers

“ _Would you like to make a payment?_ ”

 

Haggard blue eyes blink slowly before he responds, “Yes.”

 

“ _This month’s bill sir…?  Would you like it to be anonymous or—?_ ”

 

Victor clears his throat.

 

“Yes,” he repeats.

 

Then he hangs up the phone. 

 

* * *

 

Saint Petersburg is beautiful in the winter.  Most people would disagree, because winter strips Russia down to her bones, but as Victor sits outside Saint Isaac’s Cathedral with a coffee in his hands, he can’t help but wish he was a painter, so he could capture the way the light hits the first flakes of snow that dust the ground.  He takes a deep breath and something like tranquility settles into the cracks of his skin. 

 

But despite this idyllic scene, there’s something missing.

 

An image of a laughing dark-haired boy—his cheeks flushed from the cold, brown eyes turned liquid gold from the streetlights—flashes through his mind before he can stop it.  The coffee cup crumples slightly in his hand and the dark liquid spills over the top.

 

 _Ah, damn_ , he thinks.  He was doing so good.  Every time he was about to say Yuri’s name or miss his smile, his mind would shut off and he wouldn’t _think_.  Of course, the alcohol helped, too.  But now that he was back home, back in the city that raised him, how could he hide anything from her? 

 

How could he keep lying to himself?

 

His hands feel cold and he wonders if Yuri’s safe and warm right now.  His traitorous mind replays his laugh and it’s like he can hear him, giggling against the background of a thousand streetlights.  The yearning rises in his chest until it’s hard to breathe, like a restless bird that’s fighting against the cage in his ribs. 

 

Victor breathes out slowly and he lets the image face away, his breath dissipating into the twilight air. 

 

He stands and whistles for Makkachin and picks up his blank journal and walks away from the square and from the light. 

 

The walk home is slow.  Everything is slow now, for him.  Things move by in a blur: the laughter, the Christmas lights, the singing in the streets, and the excitement in the air.  Victor smiles politely at anybody who recognizes him, he lets squealing children pet Makkachin—but he always keeps walking. 

 

Night starts to paint the sky with her constellations, and he knows he should be heading home, but there’s a restlessness in him that brews and groans.  It’s something like life, bleeding into his veins for the first time in months.  Despite himself, he can’t ignore it. 

 

It’s the same urge that told him to drop everything and head to Chicago, all those ages ago. 

 

He wanders around the city until the streetlights burn brighter than the stars and Makkachin whines in hunger. 

 

So, he heads back to his apartment.  He used to call it “home”, but he left that on the other side of the world, tangled under sheets with a boy who could rattle the stars. 

 

He wonders if he knew back then what would happen, would he have gone to Chicago after all?  Two distinct stages of his life.  Before Yuri and After Yuri.  If his life was a book, those would be the only two chapters. 

 

He walks slowly back to his apartment, unlocks the door, kicks off his shoes, and sinks face down on the couch.  A part of him wants to reach for the gin hidden in his cupboard, but he pushes the urge away.  He’d been numb long enough. 

 

Instead, he feeds Makkachin and stares blankly at the journal open on his lap. 

 

It’s empty, too. 

 

It almost scares him, how he hasn’t written in months.  Because despite his cheerful mask, his seemingly perfect facade, Victor doesn’t really know how to identify and deal with his emotions until he puts it on paper. 

 

He feels enough to fill up an entire library but he can’t manage to write a single word in his journal. 

 

Maybe because this time, for the first time, words aren’t enough. 

 

Victor doesn’t know how long he sits there and stares at the blank paper, but before he realizes, it’s long past midnight and he hasn’t accomplished a single thing that day. 

 

He sighs and stands up, stretching wearily.  He knows he won’t fall asleep until the sun peeks over the horizon so he doesn’t even bother trying.  Instead, he checks up on Makkachin (who is curled up by the fire, sound asleep), and he throws on his coat and steps outside. 

 

At this hour, there’s only one place still open.

 

Victor allows his mind to wander because his feet know where to go.  He’s surprised the path isn’t worn in, his footprints marked on the road from how many times he’s walked the same trail. 

 

The feeling of life burns beneath his skin again and he almost falters.  It was almost like he’d forgotten to breathe and just realized it.  Something pulls at his bones, at the very essence of who he was, and before he knew it, Victor was walking into the bookstore.

 

The owner smiles at him the moment the door chimes his arrival and Victor smiles back.

 

He’d been coming to this bookstore ever since he was little, because it was the only place that stayed open late enough.  Sometimes he wondered how the place stayed afloat, because it sold used books and he never saw many other customers when he was there, but whatever magic the shop ran on, Victor hoped it would never run out.

 

The store is small, and Victor immediately heads towards the staircase in the back.  There’s a book here, that has never been bought, in all the years it’s spent on the shelf.  It’s this book that Victor always reads, every time he comes in.  Every time, he tells himself he’s going to buy it, but there’s something familiar about seeing that book, in the exact same spot, every time he walks in. 

 

And as he walks down the aisles, guided by some inner part of him, Victor stops in the middle of a shelf and reaches for _Russian Fairy Tales._   He’s so engrossed by his goal, that he doesn’t notice the other person in the row, reaching for the same book. 

 

When their fingers touch the spine at the same time, Victor takes a step back, blinking as he comes back to reality. 

 

“Oh, sorry—”

 

And then everything ceases to matter.

 

The world is silent for an eternity and the stars burn in the sky and Victor—Victor can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t _exist_.

 

He’s positive he’s lost his mind because there’s no way Yuri can be standing in front of him, on the other side of the world, reaching for the same book.

 

And before he can help himself, Victor says the one word he’s been avoiding for months.

 

“ _Yuri_.”

 

And the world stills before them. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA  
> I'VE BEEN WAITING F O R E V E R TO WRITE THAT  
> I LOVE CORNY STUFF HAHA REACHING FOR THE SAME BOOK WTF  
> ALSO BLACK ICE IS ALMOST A YEAR OLD NOW WTF????
> 
> anyways, let me know what you think! im super sorry for the short, short update but FINALS ARE UPON US. I HOPE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU DO FABULOUS ON YOUR EXAMS AND STUFF.
> 
> oh and just fyi, i deactivated my tumblr because of reasons so sorry if you were following me im sorry):


	15. Renaissance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shiiii  
> HERE IT IS, SORRY FOR THE LATENESS  
> PLS ENJJOY!!!  
> also you might wanna skim over the other chapters real quick because there's some stuff in them that comes up in this chapter that might confuse you because it's been so long since i last updated (sorry, sorry!!)
> 
> also this story is going to be wrapped up in the next few chapters or so, thank you all so much for sticking along for the ride! im thinking about writing a victuuri vampire fic next, but idk. lmk if you think this is a goodish idea?

Slim fingers thumb over the pages of a worn book—a loved book—but the words are in Russian, and Yuri cannot comprehend them.  Still, he concentrates, like if he looks hard enough, the words will magically transform into something comprehensible.  He pushes his bangs out of the way—he should get a haircut, but _he_ once said he liked it long—flipping through the hardcover and peering at the pictures. 

 

Fairytales. 

 

He turns a page and sees a princess, a dragon, and a prince, holding a sword and brandishing it at the fire-breathing beast.

 

A sad smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

 

The prince had blonde hair—light enough to be confused for silver.  His fingers trace idly over the man’s face.  He dares not think his name.  Doesn’t let himself.

 

Knows that he’ll break if he does. 

 

The doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of another patron.  He freezes.  A shiver of fear runs through Yuri, as his mind automatically goes to the worst-case scenario. 

 

_Was it Vlad?_

_Did he find him?_

His heart hammers in his chest and his fingers grip the book tightly.  A moment passes, adrenaline still pumping through his veins—he’s ready to drop the book and flee at any moment—but there’s no angry screaming, no punch against his jaw.  Another second passes—still nothing.  Yuri releases the breath he’s holding, forcing himself to take deep breaths. 

 

 _You got away_ , he tells himself, _you’re safe._

 

He turns back to put the book into the shelf, when he appears.  He doesn’t seem to notice Yuri at first, but Yuri’s heart is already pounding, his chest tightening like a vice, when their fingers brush.  He thinks he’s hallucinating—he _must_ be hallucinating, because there’s no way that he would be here.  The man jerks and takes a step back in surprise. 

 

“Oh, sorry—”

 

He apologizes in his native tongue but Yuri would understand that voice in any language. 

And then—

 

“ _Yuri._ ”

 

He says his name like it’s unfamiliar, his voice hoarse as he sounds out the vowels, the pain evident in the curl of his lips and the way he chokes up in the middle.

 

Yuri turns around and faces the man that built up his world and destroyed it.

 

He doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t know what to do.  But before he’s realized it, he’s wrapped in a bone-crushing hug and he’s sobbing into Victor’s coat.  Thick pearls of tears run down his cheeks and he half-hopes this is a dream. 

 

He’s imagined this scenario a billion times. 

 

But he still doesn’t know what to do. 

 

“Victor, Victor, _Victor.”_ He repeats his name like a prayer, over and over, like it’s the only thing that can save him.  The silver-haired man says something soothing in Russian, whispering it against Yuri’s hair as he hugs him tighter.  Yuri doesn’t know what he’s saying, but it only makes him sob harder.

 

Because the words sound safe and loving and understanding.

 

And Yuri…he thinks he doesn’t deserve any of that. 

 

After an eternity—but still not long enough—Victor releases Yuri from his hold and asks the Japanese boy to follow him.  Still numb, Yuri wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and nods as Victor leads them outside of the bookshop, ignoring the bewildered gaze of the shopkeeper. 

 

The cold doesn’t really register, not until Victor mumbles something about him not wearing a coat, and a moment later, a familiar red scarf is draped over his head.  Yuri can barely see over the fabric blocking his nose, but it smells like Victor and it feels like safety.  Victor pulls Yuri close to him, drapes an arm around his shoulders, and then Yuri can’t feel the cold at all. 

 

It’s a short walk, and before Yuri even notices, Victor ushers him into a warm apartment. 

 

The familiar _tip-tap_ of paws rushing to greet him and the excited bark is the only warning he gets before Makkachin knocks him to the ground, licking his face happily. 

 

It takes Victor a few moments to pry the poodle off of him, but Yuri laughs—a real laugh, in God knows how long—and pets Makkachin and the dog sits still for a moment as Yuri hugs him. 

 

And then the tears come and he doesn’t know why.  One moment he’s laughing, genuine peals of laughter, and then he’s sobbing against Makkachin’s fur. 

 

What’s left of Victor’s heart shatters.  He gently pulls Yuri from the ground, picking him up easily, and settles against the couch with the crying boy draped against his lap.  The Russian doesn’t say a word, only strokes Yuri’s back comfortingly, and pressing gentle kisses against his temple.  He waits for Yuri’s cries to slow down, until he’s not so much gasping for air as he is hiccupping against Victor’s shirt.  Victor doesn’t say a word.  A couple moments pass and Yuri’s breathing evens out.  He sits up, shifting against Victor.  Finally, he speaks, and though his voice is thickened by tears, he sounds firm and resolute. 

 

“Victor, I need to tell you what happened.” 

 

Victor presses a kiss against his cheek and nods. 

 

And Yuri begins.  

 

* * *

 

_I met a boy just like you, Yuri.  He’s a little bit older than you, but he loves to read, just like you.  And this boy—he’s in trouble.  He lost his parents a long time ago, and his new guardian is very mean.  Please understand, Yuri, I have to save him._

_If you’re reading this, then it means I’ve failed, but always know this: I love you, Yuri._

 

As Yuri stares at the short note, penned in his father’s writing, he notices some small pictures tucked into the corner of the envelope.  He looks around the empty hotel room for a moment, scared that Vlad will come back, and hurries away to the bathroom, locking the door.  It’s only after he’s positive he’s alone that he pulls out the photos. 

 

The first one is a picture of his family.  There’s his mom, young and plump and laughing, holding his dad’s hand.  Both of them were looking at Mari, who was beaming and hugging the shoulders of a very young, very shy Yuri.  He didn’t remember taking this photo, but he still smiles at the picture of his family. 

 

Yuri flips to the second photo.  His breath hitches.

 

he’d know those blue eyes anywhere. 

 

It’s a picture of him and Victor.  He doesn’t remember it at all, doesn’t recall ever meeting the Russian boy when they were young, but in front of him was the photographic evidence.  They’re both laughing in the snapshot, innocent faces lit up with joy and Yuri feels something like fate tugging at his heart. 

 

They’re in St. Petersburg, at an ice skating rink outside, and Yuri is holding Victor’s hand for balance.  He vaguely remembers this trip—his father was a journalist, after all; they used to travel everywhere—but he doesn’t recall having ever met Victor.  Then again, he was young, a toddler by the looks of it. 

 

And then Yuri turns to the last photo.

 

He wants to say he’s surprised, but he knows that would be a lie. 

 

It’s a photograph of Victor, who looks a bit older in this snapshot—about fifteen, sixteen maybe.  It takes a moment for Yuri to recognise him, because the face that’s staring into the camera with cold, cold eyes—that’s not the Victor he knows.  But the reason for his vacant look stands right beside him in the photo, towering domineeringly over the youth with a possessive hand clamped over his shoulder: Vlad.

 

It takes two seconds for Yuri to put the pieces together and then the guilt hits him like a flood.  He’s paralysed, but for the first time in months, he knows what he has to do. 

 

Outside, the hotel room opens.

 

Yuri is so caught up in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear the door opening, doesn’t smell the alcohol, doesn’t notice the signs until it’s too late. 

 

Vlad pounds on the bathroom door. 

 

Yuri freezes.  Doesn’t respond. 

 

“Yuri, _baby_?”

 

The way he coos his name makes him shudder.  Yuri freezes, looks at the damning evidence around him.

 

 _The photos, oh God, the photos_.  He can’t see the photos, or the note.  Yuri folds the notes into the envelope and responds, “Just a minute!”

 

His voice cracks; he curses himself for it.  And Vlad—Vlad knows.  He knows something is wrong, hears the shuffling, the fear emanating from behind the door. 

 

A flip switches.

 

“Yuri, get out.  Right now.”

 

His voice is even, rage wrapped behind silken clouds—poison in an apple.  Yuri doesn’t respond.

 

“Yuri.  Right _now_.”

 

Panic, panic, panic.  Adrenaline screeches through his veins and he can’t think, can’t react.  He needs to run, needs to escape.

 

Needs to find Victor. 

 

He tucks everything back into the envelope and slips it into his pocket.  Then he slowly approaches the door.  He can practically see the anger bleeding in Vlad’s face.  Yuri takes a deep breath.  Counts to the three.  And then—

 

He slams the door open and barrels past Vlad.  He manages to knock him off balance and feels something like victory well up in his throat when he hears him fall and curse.  Then he races for the hotel door, grabs the handle, and yanks it open, hope blossoming in his chest and Victor’s smile in his mind.

 

He manages to open it a crack before a heavy hand slams it back shut.  The hope disappears, withers way.  He pulls and claws at the door, desperation making his chest heave and his throat constrict, but Vlad grabs him like a rag doll and tosses him against the wall. 

 

Yuri gasps, staggering backwards.  He sees murder in Vlad’s eyes. 

 

“So you found out, eh?”

 

Yuri pulls himself up, leaning against the wall for support.  He ignores the sting of bruises, some new, some healing, when he brushes against the wall.  He doesn’t say anything, dark eyes brimming with anger.  Vlad smiles.

 

“That’s a good look on you, Yuri,” he chuckles, pacing back and forth, “So how’d you find out?  Was it the hospital?  Did you finally bother checking in with them?”

 

He laughs, and the sound is torture, grating against Yuri’s ears. 

 

But he doesn’t understand—what about the hospital?  What was he saying?

 

“What do you mean?”

 

He asks the question before he can stop himself and Vlad absolutely loses it.  He doubles over, guffawing like a lunatic.  When he’s finally composed himself, he wipes the tears from his eyes, looking at Yuri like he’s a piece of trash on the side of the road. 

“I’ve never paid for your mother’s bills, Yuri,” he says, still laughing, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, “You’ve been doing this,” he waves his arm around, “All of _this_ —for nothing.”

 

It takes a moment for the words to settle in. 

 

Dropping out of school, moving to Russia, leaving Victor, leaving his mom, being abused every single day—all of it was for nothing.  The world reels around him and he staggers against the wall, leaning on it for support.  He feels sick.  He feels—he doesn’t even know.  A tsunami of emotions: regret, self-hatred, loathing, guilt—all of it hammers down on him at once and he doesn’t know what to do.  Bile rises in his throat and he forces it back down, sweat beading at his temples as he tries not to puke. 

 

“Then who—” he gasps out, “Who was paying for everything?”

 

And Vlad _laughs_. 

 

“Oh goodness, didn’t you know?  _Vitya_ , of course.  My dear, that boy can’t ever ignore a pity case—especially not one that hits so close to home.”

 

And the world whirls around him, but Yuri forces it to stand still. 

 

He tells himself to keep breathing, _inhale, exhale_ , but it’s so hard when his universe is burning down.  Vlad takes a heavy step towards him, alcohol lining his breath, but Yuri snaps, “Stay the fuck away from me.”

 

“Oh, come on, Yuri _baby._ ”

 

“You’re a _monster_.”

 

“No, _you_ are.  You left Vitya all alone in that city, even though you were the reason he came to the States in the first place.  Did you know, that even when he was breaking, he still paid for your mother’s hospital bills?  Lucky for me, I suppose, but this is all your fault, Yuri.”

 

Each word is a blow against his chest and Yuri isn’t sure how many more he can take. 

 

But then Victor’s smile flashes through his mind.  Victor’s laugh, his touch, the warmth in his eyes that never ebbs away.

 

 _I have to see him again_.

Yuri grits his teeth, balls his hand into a fist.

 

Then before he’s aware of what he’s doing, he punches Vlad straight in the jaw. 

 

For a moment, nothing happens.  They’re both staring at each other in shock.  But that quickly melts away, rage filling Vlad’s eyes until they’re overflowing. 

 

He advances on Yuri, the anger stripping the inhibition from his steps, and for a split second, Yuri cowers.

 

And then he moves.

 

He rushes past Vlad, and heads right for the door. 

 

This time, he manages to pry it open, even though Vlad is screaming at him.  He slips through the door and then he’s running down the hotel halls; he hears Vlad stumbling after him.  He ignores the elevator completely, and bolts down the stairs.  He doesn’t know which story they’re on and he doesn’t care enough to pay attention.  All he knows is that soon enough, Vlad’s footsteps fade away and he’s opening the door to the freezing cold of St. Petersburg, and to freedom.

 

* * *

 

“That was two days ago,” Yuri says quietly, pulling out the envelope from his pocket and showing Victor the pictures and the letter, “Honestly, I don’t know if I would’ve made it much farther.  I didn’t have any food or money or any way to contact anybody.”

 

Victor hasn’t said a single word this entire time, and Yuri looks at him in worry.

 

“Victor?”

 

And his heart stops and he doesn’t know what to do. 

 

 _He’s crying_.   _Oh my god, he’s_ crying _._

Yuri sits there, gaping open-mouthed at Victor.  He’s never been good at dealing with tears, but _Victor crying_ was a whole new level of anxiety.  The Russian man doesn’t say a thing, only sniffles quietly as Yuri brushes a silver tear from his cheek. 

 

“Uh, V-Victor?  Are you okay?”

 

His answer is another to wrap Yuri in another tight hug.  He holds him there and Yuri tucks his head underneath Victor’s chin.  Finally, he answers.

 

“I’m so sorry, Yuri.”

 

Yuri takes a shuddering breath.  There was so much emotion, so much grief and regret and _guilt_ in his voice, that it broke his heart. 

 

“Me too.”

 

And then Victor leans down, and presses a gentle kiss against Yuri’s lips. 

 

For a moment, Victor could’ve sworn they tasted like katsudon. 


End file.
